


The Book of Elessar

by Elessar010



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, Gen, Gondor, Moria | Khazad-dûm, Rivendell | Imladris, Thorongil - Freeform, Young Aragorn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 83,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24627100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elessar010/pseuds/Elessar010
Summary: Elrond and Gilraen told Aragorn the truth of his name and lineage in his twentieth year. Thereafter, he journeyed far and wide in Middle-earth. He serves Gondor and Rohan under the name Thorongil, and ventures into Harad and the far East. This story traces many of those adventures, which are not fully described in canon sources, save for a few achievements. Thus, there may be some canon departure but mostly I try to stay within canon.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. The Weight and the Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Fellowship of the Ring, Aragorn mentions to the Company that he once entered Moria, and that the memory of that journey was very dark. This chapter begins that story, which I imagined occurred shortly after he learns the truth of his lineage.

When Aragorn was young, he stood on the edge of Mirrormere, looking across the glassy surface to the rising peaks beyond. The light of day faded and the valley was bathed in a pale blue light. He had made camp for two days on the edge of the lake, but his fire smoldered behind him, fading with the day. A weight burdened his mind, with knowledge of what he now knew, and what path lay before him. He looked longingly across the lake, which did not grow dark with the coming night, but the full moon that rose above cast a shimmering, bright light across the surface.

Not yet a season ago, Elrond had told Aragorn his true name, and the name of his father, and that his line extended beyond count of years, to Isildur and Elendil, of Numenor. Though Elrond and his mother told him truths that now lay on him like a stone, in his heart, something stirred. A growing fire and will that straightened his back; but the fire mingled with doubt and dread.

He drew the ancient blade, Narsil, that Elrond had given him ; an heirloom of his house, but not the one that he thought he knew as a boy. The sword glistened in the moonlight and within it Aragorn saw his face reflected and a faint light there seemed to glisten in his eye. The blade was heavy, despite being broken a foot below the hilt. In it were carved ancient elven runes, and Aragorn thought back to the hands that wielded it before him. How could he wield such a blade, which in the hands of greater men, felled the Enemy? Yet, no blade saved Isildur from his doom; that shadow lay upon him, now. Would such a fate befall him, too, now that he carried the weight of his house; a house that, in the end, could not escape the lure of power?

Standing on the edge of the lake, Aragorn remembered the tale of Durin the Deathless, who gazed upon the water and saw in it the reflection of stars that cast a crown on his head. Aragorn knelt at the edge and looked into the water. His face, scraggly from months abroad, looked back at him, waving in the soft ripples. Though the moon was high and the stars about, he could see nothing upon his head but darkness. Of course, he thought, for though he learned that his line extended back to great kings, what yet had he done to earn such recognition from the stars?

Aragorn put aside the thought and returned the ancient blade to the scabbard on his belt, opposite the full sword he carried with him for several years already, and with which he could not yet part. Looking up the mountain, a path wound up the hill and to the stairs below the East-gate. He walked there and stood before it, recalling what he had read in Imladris about the great battle that felled orcs beyond count, and Dain Ironfoot achieved victory, slaying the great orc Azog. It is said that battle dwindled the orcs’ numbers in the Misty Mountains, and he hoped it to be true.

Through the East-gate Aragorn walked and entered a moonlit hall of stone. The ceiling rose high above and the hall was large enough to accommodate many men. Two rows of stone columns stood on either side, dividing the hall. Large windows carved into the mountain above brought in the moonlight, and shadows fell among the columns. Aragorn’s footsteps echoed, and the air moved with a slight breeze as if the mountain itself breathed amid sleep.

Beyond the First Hall was a wide passageway and stairs leading up. The moonlight from the First Hall could not reach beyond the stairs and Aragorn lit a torch that he carried. At the top of the stairs, he came to a wide chasm, more than fifty feet, and a large, echoing chamber in the mountain. The depth of the chasm could not be measured, and the ceiling was high. A narrow stone bridge crossed the expanse. A great wind rushed up from the chasm below and the air grew thick.

His heart trembled as the torch could barely illuminate the stone on the opposite end of the bridge. There was no rail and he had to cross it at risk of falling into an inescapable darkness. Aragorn gathered himself and began walking across the bridge; pebbles fell at his steps and the wind from the expanse below shook him, moaning in the hollow spaces of the rock faces below. As he passed the halfway point, the fear of the precarious passage filled him, and he quickened his pace to an almost reckless speed, but it carried him to the other side in moments and he backed away from the edge, leaning against the stone wall, breathing heavily.

There he rested a moment, but the darkness of the First Deep reached into him, and filled his mind with dread. The great expanse and the stone around him seemed to creak and moan, and there were strange sounds quietly in the dark. He felt as if something watched him from afar, and the thought sent a cold up his back. With the torch in his left hand, he drew his sword and passed up the stairs and into the Second Hall.

The immense hall and stone columns within towered above him, and his torch cast only a small circle of light. He looked all around as he walked, for the feeling of eyes upon him only grew, and his apprehension to continue, along with it. Moving in the dark he recalled thoughts of Imladris in his mind, of the bright sun shining through the trees and soft grass beneath his feet. His mother was there, and those he considered his brothers, also, for he wished they were with him now. But the thoughts could not hold back the darkness, and he began to wonder if the echo of footsteps were his own, or those of something else.

Aragorn stopped near to a column and stood silently. He could hear the soft patter of bare feet on stone, and they moved quickly here and there, but Aragorn could see nothing beyond a few paces in front of him. He closed his eyes and focused his mind, listening intently. He slowly knelt down and placed the torch on the stone floor and as he stood again, he could feel a presence near to him.

Suddenly he turned to his right and at that moment a goblin lurched from the darkness; clattering into him, the goblin drew a curved knife and Aragorn stumbled, but kept up his blade to fend off a further lunging from the goblin that must have been following him in the hall. It circled him and gnashed its teeth, and as they circled with the torch now between them on the floor, a squeal came from behind him and Aragorn turned swiftly to catch another goblin in the chest with his blade. The happenstance blow felled the small goblin, but the first lashed at him with its knife and Aragorn jumped away.

His blade free Aragorn lunged at the goblin but missed his strike, and the goblin leapt upon him, clutching at his clothes and bag, bringing its knife above its head to strike downward. Aragorn turned and smashed the goblin into the column and it fell, dropping its knife to the floor, a shrill sound of metal on stone filled the hall. Aragorn finished his foe with a decisive swipe of his blade and stood alone once again; he heaved a sigh a picked up the torch again. He reached through the packs and pockets of the goblins but found nothing there, but a red flame crudely painted on the goblins’ shirt.

He looked around and listened for a moment but heard nothing and continued through the hall. Aragorn passed through the hall and up stairs, through branching paths that took him one direction, and then another. The intricate network finally seemed to climb to the upper levels, which he knew signified his continued passage westward. But the encounter with the goblins lingered in the back of his mind. If two were near the gate, then more must patrol the lower levels.

As he walked along what he guessed was still the second, or possibly the third level, he came to many crumbling stairs that climbed back and forth, set upon high towers of stone, while the rock around them crumbled into deep chasms. The same dread of the bridge filled him again, but he carefully climbed, testing his foothold with each step. But as he stepped upon a stone, it crumbled beneath his feet, and Aragorn slipped between, holding fast to the rock with both hands, his torch falling below. He watched it fall before pulling himself up as the rock croaked again and his wet hands became slick. He crawled upon his belly on the stairs and lay looking downward. His heart beat like a drum in his chest and he became enveloped in total darkness.

The depths were silent, save for Aragorn’s breathing. He could see nothing in front of him, and his fingers reached down to his belt and felt within a pouch for his flint, the only tool to break the darkness that he now possessed. He struck it frantically, and each spark burst forth like a fire in the night, but with nothing to ignite, he simply lay there, breaking the darkness for fleeting moments. His heart sank, and he dropped his head to the stone and panic gripped him. The time that passed could not be measured, and Aragorn could not say how long he lay motionless on the stairs; but the silence was suddenly broken by the sound of footsteps and the barking and hissing of goblin voices echoing through a tunnel above him. He looked toward the sounds, though nothing could he see, until at last, a faint light grew above, and from a tunnel in the wall, which had not been carved by dwarven skill, there came a patrol of goblins.

Four marched, backs bent over, with three following a tall, stout goblin. Two of them carried torches and they walked along a walkway that then led to the stairs. Their swords were drawn, but they did not notice him as they watched their footsteps on the crumbling stairs as they went down, left and right. The torchlight in the chamber barely lit enough for Aragorn to look back the way he came, and he had scarcely passed a few flights of stairs. If he moved, they would see him and pursue. But he could not lie still for them to tread over him, for they would surely discover him first and he was in greater danger of falling from the stairs than taking a goblin blade.

So, with little light to guide his way, and shadows obscuring pitfalls and crumbled steps, he leapt to his feet. “Look!” One of the goblins shouted, pointing at Aragorn. The lead goblin roared and pounded another in the back, “Catch ‘im!”

The goblins hurried as they could; though the stairs were perilous they seemed to know the places where the stone held firmly. Aragorn possessed no such knowledge, and leaped down to the flight of stairs below, then skipped over steps as he barely maintained his balance and finally tumbled down the last flight to the floor of the hall below. The goblins deftly moved down behind him, and the large patrol leader followed them.

Aragorn shook his head and rolled to his feet, drawing his blade. Two goblins ran at him with great ferocity and he parried their blows and kicked one to the ground as the third rushed toward him. Aragorn stepped aside and cut the goblin down as it squealed and died. The other two came at him at once and he backed away from their blows, but overcame them, gravely wounding one, and the second fell to his blade.

The patrol leader now approached, a great curved sword at his hip. He wore crude armor fashioned from old mail, steel, and leather. Upon his chest was painted red flame. The patrol leader roared and charged at Aragorn, who stood firm, though the goblin’s strength caught him off-guard and they clashed swords, the goblin driving Aragorn backward. After knocking Aragorn’s blow aside, the goblin grabbed his shirt and tossed him to the floor. Aragorn fell in a heap, but stood again as the goblin leader came at him again. Aragorn swung his great sword but the goblin ducked and threw his body into Aragorn, knocking him off balance. With a sharp ping, his blade struck a stone column and a vibration passed down the sword to his hand, shaking him, and he dropped his weapon.

Before he could pick it up, the patrol leader swung, and Aragorn moved aside, delivering a fist to the goblin’s face. A fear and ferocity overtook him and he flung himself at the goblin, who dropped his sword and held Aragorn back, one hand at Aragorn's throat and the other holding his arm. They struggled but with his free hand, Aragorn reached down to the broken, ancient blade at his belt and in a single motion, drew it swiftly and cut across the goblin’s throat. Its grip on him went slack, and the goblin fell to its knees, then flat on the floor.

Aragorn sat heavily, dropping the broken blade immediately. The shrill ringing of it hitting the stone echoed in his ears and throughout the hall for many seconds. Aragorn heaved deep breaths and his hands shook. He put his face in his hands and slowed his breathing. The urge to turn back pushed him, but as he looked around in the faint light of the goblin torches that lay nearby, he saw the ancient sword glinting. He picked it up and though it remained heavy in his hand and the knowledge weighed on him, he rekindled his desire to go forward. He returned it to the scabbard on his belt and stood.

He picked up his sword and inspected the blade. The stone battered it where he struck, but it remained intact. He walked over and retrieved one of the goblin torches. Heading back toward the stairs he climbed once more, carefully measuring his steps. Amid the dense and heavy shadow, he carried the light with him, up and to the west.


	2. In Darkness and in Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's journey through Khazad-dum continues, and he recalls in a dream, the moment Gilraen and Elron told him the truth. But, his doubt about his own heart and strength linger, and the overwhelming darkness of Khazad-dum presses upon him, and lingering doubt becomes a heavy weight.
> 
> (Sorry these early chapters are short; they get longer as it goes on and I hit a better stride.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the canon. While some of Elrond's words in the moment he gave the Sword that was Broken to Aragorn are known in Appendices to The Return of the King, here is a moment I branch away from my canon-compliance, due to the simple fact that I personally find it more truthful and meaningful to center Gilraen more than Elrond, and I tried to capture some emotional connection between mother and son, here. Dialogue from Elrond I left out, explicitly as it appears in the Appendices, but I think the overall moment I think is still within compliance.

Estel sat on a soft couch in a room in the House of Elrond, his mother, Gilraen, sitting beside him. Spring was rising in the valley and the songs of birds and the warm light of the sun filled the room from the open windows. They talked joyfully, for Estel had not seen his mother for many weeks while he was away with his brothers. The comfort of her voice and the light touch of her hand upon his was a stark and a welcome change from the hard, cold lands from which he returned.

Elrond entered carrying a white wooden box, which he placed gently on a table in the center of the room. He smiled and Estel stood quickly to greet him, bowing his head, but the Elf gripped him tightly in a warm embrace.

“Welcome home, Estel,” Elrond said. “You have brought the Spring with you, or it has told of your coming.”

“Surely I did not bring it, for our road was often cold and harsh,” Estel said, smiling.

“Sit now, Estel, let us speak for a moment,” Gilraen said softly. And suddenly Estel saw that her face had become grave and a look of grief and fear overcame her light.

Estel looked between them concernedly, and Elrond motioned for him to sit. He took his place beside his mother on the couch and Elrond turned back to the table and opened the wooden box. Its contents Estel could not see, for Elrond stood between them. Slowly Elrond turned and his hands were clasped one atop the other and Estel could see in his face that something had fallen upon both his mother and his adoptive father, for they suddenly seemed to carry a weight and Estel felt an uneasiness that soon such a weight was to be passed to him.

Elrond sat in a chair across from them and opening his hands, he held up a silver ring. Brilliantly it shone and Estel could see that it was in the shape of two serpents, each with emerald eyes that twinkled in the sun. One of the serpents devoured, and the other supported a crown of golden flowers.

As Elrond did not speak, Estel remarked, “A brilliant token,” finding little more he could say to break the silence that hung about them.

“Indeed,” Elrond said at last, “for this is the Ring of Barahir, owned by Finrod Felegund, lord of Nargothrond. It has passed through the ages upon many hands, a token of eternal friendship between Finrod and the house of Barahir. Though its history has not always been complete, it came to rest with me nearly a thousand years ago.”

Estel looked with amazement, though Elrond did not speak to the purpose of this tale, or of the artifact itself. But he remained quiet, for he knew nothing of this ring, and Elrond’s eyes searched Estel’s face.

Elrond continued, “The ring came to me from the Rangers of the North, those who remain of the Northern Kingdom, the men of Arnor. You, your mother, and father, are counted among them. It was given to me, as it is an heirloom of that kingdom, and here I hold those in safekeeping.”

“Indeed, now I recall mention of such things in what I have read and learned about the Northern Kingdom,” Estel said.

“Yes, we have taught you much, but though your knowledge is wide, it is not yet deep, and in a way, I am ashamed to say that it has been purposefully kept so,” Elrond said, his head bowed.

“What do you mean?” Estel asked, looking at the Elf and then his mother.

“Lord Elrond speaks truthfully, though he is not all to blame. Please be patient, my son, for we have not meant to wound you, but there is much that has been kept from you,” Gilraen said. Suddenly, Estel felt cold and he looked at his mother, a pain in her eyes. He searched for words to say, but could muster none, and he looked up at Elrond in utter confusion. She put a hand to his shoulder and her touch soothed him for a moment as Elrond continued.

“This being an heirloom of Arnor, passed from Tar-Elendil’s hand to that of his son, and to the Kings of Arthedain, until that Kingdom, too, fell into ruin, it is by right, to pass to the only living heir of that line,” Elrond said, reaching out his hand and presenting the ring to Estel.

Estel’s eyes widened and breath escaped him. His heart fluttered, but then sank, for he churned over many words and feelings in that moment. The truth eluded him still, for how could such a thing be true? His eyes glistening, he looked to his mother, and then to Elrond.

“I do not understand,” he stammered.

“The Ring is yours, Estel,” Elrond said. “Heir of Isildur.”

Estel’s hands shook, and his mother comforted him, “It is much to bear, I know. But the truth is thus: your father, Arathorn, slain by orcs when you were but a babe, was Chieftain of the Dunedain, and through long lines that have withered, but not broken, heir of the last great Kings of Men,” she told him.

“This cannot be true,” Estel said, his voice shaking.

“This is the truth,” Gilraen continued. “After your father fell, as has been tradition, I brought you to Imladris and here we have raised you, and counseled you as best we can. Though, I feared for your safety, for the Enemy has long sought to end the line of Kings, being such a great threat to darkness in this world. Lord Elrond, and I, chose to conceal your identity from all, even yourself.”

“You’ve lied to me,” Estel said, a fire rising in his heart. He saw that the words wounded his mother, and he could not say whether that had been his intent, but his anger withdrew as he saw the pain on her face. “I am sorry,” he said.

Gilraen shed tears as the weight of the moment that she came to dread had finally laid upon her, and the pain in her son’s voice drove into her heart. “I am sorry,” she responded. “You are wounded, now, I know. I have been wounded each day, knowing that this time drew nearer with each passing winter, when spring arrived and you faced another year. I knew that revealing the truth to you meant that you would face greater danger than you could imagine, and that a path lay before you that would send you far from me, into darkness and doubt.”

His mother wept, and Estel put his arm around her and held her tightly. Each was wounded, and he came to realize that she passed to him a weight that she herself already bore. He could not blame her; he kissed her forehead and wept, too.

“I understand, mother,” he said. “This weight has fallen to me, and I do not know if I can bear it, yet; but you have already carried it daily, and your strength is more than I now possess. I admit that this news frightens me, more than any danger I have faced in the wild, but your strength gives me hope.”

“Hope,” Gilraen said. “It was I who bore Hope into this world, as it was foretold by my mother, Ivorwen. Though an uncertain fate now lies before you, there is ever hope, so long as you carry it with you. For that is why Lord Elrond and I chose to call you by such a name, but your given name that your father I bestowed upon you, is Aragorn.”

“Aragorn,” he said, at last speaking his own, true name.

As he looked up, Aragorn saw Elrond standing before him, and in his hands he held a shimmering sword. Though it shined brightly, Aragorn saw that the blade was broken, and he knew enough of the history of Men to recognize the sword of Elendil. Aragorn looked from the blade up to Elrond.

“Now, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, Elendil’s son,” Elrond said to him, “the blade that was broken, must pass to you.”

Aragorn found that he could not reach for the ancient blade that Elron now presented to him, for in his heart he still could not fathom the truth of all that he heard. Finally he willed his hand to reach for the hilt, but it wavered, then his fingers gripped the sword and lifted it from Elrond’s hands. Though it was broken a foot above the hilt, it weighed heavily in his hands, and the thought of it made his heart heavy. Here was the blade that cut the Ring of Power from Sauron’s hand, yet he held it, barely of age, in a peaceful house in spring. Silly it seemed to call the sword his own.

“Now that it comes to you, great danger lies ahead,” Elrond said to him, putting a comforting hand upon his arm. “The Enemy will ever seek you, and you will have to remain vigilant all your life. There is much you must do now, and though you may travel far, my house will ever remain open to you, and I shall be glad to see you."

Aragorn looked at him and held the sword down at his side, “Nothing you’ve told me here changes my feelings for you, or Imladris,” he said affectionately. “Though, I do not know which course I shall take now.”

Gilraen stood, “We do not intend for this to be a journey you must take right away. There is still much you can learn while here. Elrond may counsel differently, and you should certainly seek his wisdom, but for my part, I wish you to stay in Imladris a little while longer, so that we may speak and that I may answer questions, if I know the answers.”

“Your mother is right,” Elrond said. “It is well for you to stay in Imladris, until your heart bids you to do otherwise. There is time enough for you to face darkness and danger.”

Gilraen smiled at Aragorn, but her heart grew heavy as now her son had grown beyond the bounds of her protection.

\--

Aragorn awoke in the cold darkness of Moria. He sat huddled in a corner of a square chamber that was littered with old, rotting wooden chairs and shelves. He had sat and slept in the dark for an unknown period of time, his cloak wrapped around him. Now awake, he struck his flint and re-lit a torch to cast flickering light across the room. He stood and peered out into the empty corridor, one of many on the Seventh Level. His torchlight illuminated the corridor a few feet in each direction and a light breeze blew through the stone hallway. To refocus his direction, he looked down at the small mark he made in the stone on the lower right of the opening to the chamber where a wooden door long ago fell off its hinges and now lay in pieces on the floor. He looked down the hall to his left and headed there, the sounds of his footsteps bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

The hall was barely large enough for two men to walk abreast, and Aragorn felt the stone walls close to him, as if they closed in with each passing step. The breeze passed like a deep breath in a cavern, whistling at times against unseen corners. He sharply turned back and stopped every few moments to peer into the fading torchlight behind him, the sound of real or imagined footsteps always in the back of his mind. Whether more goblins were on his trail or not, a faint dread ever followed him from the gates up through the levels on the east side of Moria.

At last the hallway opened into a greater passageway, and Aragorn surveyed it with the torch, holding it aloft to light his surroundings. He stood beneath a higher ceiling, and he walked across cautiously to touch the cold stone on the opposite wall. Though the passageway was larger and did not encroach upon him as the last, he did not find comfort, and his senses remained on a knife edge. He thought for a moment in the middle of the intersection and finally stepped to his right, following the passage as it wound ahead, with a vague sense of climbing upward.

He walked with his hand touching the left wall, guiding his way. Suddenly, the wall ended and by the light of his torch he saw there a doorway to another chamber. He entered and found a room not much larger than the chamber in which he slept before. Moving to the center of the room, he could see against the walls rotted wood and stone fragments lying about. Tools and weapons lay there also, brittle, chipped and rusting. He knelt over the head of a great pick axe, whose handle long fell into dust. Looking up, he started at the sight of a skeleton sitting up against the wall. He looked upon the undisturbed bones of a dwarf, clad in mail, a helmet sagging and covering much of its skull. An arrow pierced its chest and a shield lay beside its hand.

How long the warrior sat there, he could not tell; and Aragorn spoke softly to himself, to lament the dwarf’s passing, but also to steel his own nerves for he found that his heart fluttered and his thoughts strayed. Would he, too, be found in such darkness, decayed and alone where all sense of time is gone and the warmth of spring just a memory? He sighed deeply, and stood. Suddenly, the sounds of following footsteps, he knew were very real.

Aragorn quickly moved to the wall and put his back to it, standing to the left of the doorway, but he could not conceal the light of his torch, which reached out onto the passageway floor. He set it down in the corner of the chamber, drew his sword slowly, and waited as three orc voices echoed outside in the passageway.

Into the chamber they walked, and Aragorn saw the tip of a raised spear before the goblin that wielded it. As the goblin entered, the light from Aragorn’s torch drew it, and it turned, but Aragorn waited there, and sprung forth, grabbing the spear with his left hand and cleaving it in half with his sword. A second goblin spear thrust forward toward him and it cut Aragorn across the waist. Undeterred, Aragorn faced them, seeing a third goblin enter the chamber, this one wielding a sword.

They rushed him at once and Aragorn parried the spear away, blocking the goblin’s sword with the point of the spear that he now held. The third goblin used the broken shaft of the spear as a club and struck Aragorn in the leg. He fell to one knee, but quickly stuck the goblin with the spear point. The goblin shrieked and fell back with both hands clutching the spear in its chest, pulling it from Aragorn’s hand. Now the other two came upon him again, but he rolled and climbed to his feet quickly behind them. He struck one, then the other and the chamber fell quiet once more.

As it lay in the corner, the light of his torch burned low. A wave of desperation washed over him, and Aragorn rushed to retrieve the torch and blew softly to stoke the flame. He stood among the goblins, who lay scattered on the floor, the light of the torch causing their black blood to glisten on the floor. They would soon lie with the bones of dwarves from ages past; forgotten in the dark for many ages to come. Aragorn breathed rhythmically and his heart calmed. He carried his sword in one hand, now, and the torch in the other, and walked back out into the passageway.

Through many paths and halls he traveled. Large halls showed the old expanse of the dwarven city that once shone brightly beneath the mountain. Aragorn thought of the lights, songs, and the ever-present ringing of hammers that must have filled the halls in past ages. He smiled, even, at the thought, but always the heavy shroud of the current darkness and the unbearable silence overwhelmed him. A splendid kingdom once stood here, and he now looked upon despair and ruin: was this the fate of all things? Could such terror and evil be held at bay by so few? Did he have the strength to stand against it?

He moved through the present hall and into another pathway that branched from it, and a light caught his eye. At first he thought to rush toward it, to seek it with all speed. But he recalled the drawing of the goblins to his own torchlight, and stopped. He moved slowly toward the light, which faintly splashed on the opposite wall of the pathway. He came to a doorway with two large stone doors that hung open, and he looked inside to see a chamber that was slightly illuminated by a shaft of moonlight from above. He entered and stood where the ray of light fell onto the floor.

For the first time since he passed the great bridge of Khazad-dum, Aragorn saw light, and outside, a clear night. He looked about the chamber and found many signs of battle, bones, weapons, and chests thrown open. Recesses were carved into the walls and chests still sat there undisturbed. Aragorn delayed there, in the moonlight for as long as it could last. He sat against the wall and ate from his provisions of dried meat. He refreshed the torch, wrapping it in the old clothes he took from the felled goblins. He sat there and a shadow, some large cloud in the sky beyond the stone, passed in front of the moon, the light in the chamber slowly dying. He once again found himself in darkness.

But, there he saw a light in the hall outside the chamber, and the sounds of goblins moving, their armor clanking in the quiet. Now concealed, Aragorn continued to sit, and the light grew beyond the stone doors of the chamber. Without paying the chamber much notice, two goblins waddled by, one carrying a small torch. Aragorn stood once they had passed and slipped quietly out of the chamber and into the hall, following several feet behind the goblin scouts. He kept one hand on his sword and the goblins’ arguments and clanking armor concealed his movements.

They and the path turned to the right and emptied into a great hall, and the sounds they made echoed greatly. Aragorn stayed just beyond the light of their torch and moved now between the columns of stone that rose high above them. From one column to the next, he continued ahead, overtaking the goblins and at last, putting his back to a column and drawing his sword. He watched the light spread across the floor as it approached him. He turned and moved to the opposite side of the column, away from the light, making another turn and, finally being directly behind them, leaped out and pierced the goblin whose hands were free. The other dropped the torch, but by the time it could draw its sword, Aragorn felled it, too. Aragorn stood silently, looking over his head as if he watched the echoes ring out from him, pass beyond the shimmering torchlight, and into the darkness above.


	3. Beneath the Shadow of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn faces darkness and danger unlike any he has faced before. Though he progresses West through the mines, a great darkness blocks his passage, and the mountain crumbles around him.

An overwhelming silence fell upon the great hall once more. Aragorn stood alone in the dying torchlight. He lifted it from the floor and stoked the flame, its soft flickering the only sound. He looked back to the chamber in which the moonlight glowed, and saw that a brighter light now came from within. The light of a new day had made its way over the mountains, and now came into the chamber through the shaft in the ceiling. He knew his path westward, and crossed the great hall to find a doorway there, but partially collapsed and ruined. He passed through the doorway and traversed broad, steep steps that climbed upward and came to a ledge where branching paths split in numerous directions. Feeling a cool breeze ahead, he followed it, his hand sliding along the wet stone of the wall.

At last he came into the mines of Moria, beneath the western slope of the mountains. Though his travel had been perilous, he raised his torch and saw before him the danger that now lie ahead. The pathway opened to a large cavern, roughly hewn and covered with decaying wood ladders, scaffolds, and elevators. He stood on a narrow ledge that fell into a great darkness, and beyond he could not see the opposite wall. The ledge passed downwards to his right, though he dare not use any ladder or stair for fear of collapse. Steps and scaffolds clung to the rock wall and stone stairways appeared as brittle as ice on a spring lake.

His back to the wall, he shuffled along the narrow ledge. At times, he felt a force upon his back, as if the stone itself wished him to tumble down into the dark depths before him. His heart raced and his hands were unsteady. As he came to the first step where the ledge dropped to his right, he knelt and saw that the wooden ladder there could not be trusted. He carefully slipped over the edge and dropped to the lower ledge, the soft sound of his boots hitting the stone. He paused and then continued on when no sound followed him. Along the ledge he walked until finally, a roughly hewn stairway led up to a clearer landing where more paths diverged. His mind he could not make up, and thus sat quietly, pondering which way to go.

The path to his left seemed to climb upward, and turn toward the west, as he felt his passage along the rock ledge had led him north. But a center stairway climbed steeply up, and beyond the doorway he could not see which way it may lead. He did not wish to descend deeper into the mountain, and thus looked away from the path to his right. He rose to his feet and looking into the center path, saw the stairs climb so steeply that he thought he may have to travel that way on his hands and knees. He turned left and followed the gentler stairs up and to the left, into a narrow passageway.

As he walked, Aragorn felt hemmed in on all sides, as the pathway seemed to narrow the further he traveled. His shoulder brushed against the wall, and he looked behind in the dim torchlight, but beyond a few feet, he saw only darkness. He continued on, the stone not only tightening around him, but the air also; it grew warm and thick, and his breathing became labored. He quickened his pace as a panic rose in him, and thoughts of finding himself trapped within the narrow pathway overcame him. He shuffled his feet and his hand groped along the stone ahead, searching for a place where the path would widen and free him from the stone’s grip. So focused was he on the walls and the ceiling over his head, which whether real or imagined, seemed to be lower than it was before, that he failed to see the weak and crumbling stone before his feet. A crash and sudden cracking caught him off guard as the ground beneath him crumbled. He felt the sure footing of stone give way and he fell.

Tumbling down amid stones, he rolled and clattered down through an unseen cavern. Stone struck him and his head and limbs seared with the pain of the chaotic fall. At last he hit something firm and the rocks, too, fell onto him and onto the floor of a cavern which he could not see. The crashing and sharp echoes slowly came to silence and only the desperate heaving of his chest could he hear.

Aragorn’s hands groped about in the dark. He felt up and around the stone, finding he could sit up in the lightless cavern. His body ached and he felt his face, a warm, wet trickle of blood passing down from his head to his cheek. He wiped it away with his sleeve. His hands shook. His breathing quickened. For a moment he sat motionless in the dark, clutching his knees, as a great shadow of fear gripped him.

Though there was darkness all about him, he closed his eyes and softly sang,

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel  
o menel palan-diriel,  
le nallon si di’nguruthos!  
A tiro nin, Fanuilos!_

He opened his eyes and a warmth rose in him again, and his spirit soared. Determined once more, he groped about, on hands and knees, and followed the cavern away from the pile of rock that had come with him down the shaft. Long he crawled, and the cavern was tight around him, until at last he nearly tumbled out of an opening in a large wall of stone. Hanging half out of the cavern, he could touch stone below him, and the echoing sound of dripping water and a breeze signaled that he had entered a larger chamber. He crawled out of the cavern, falling to the stone floor. There came a great crash and the echo of metal on stone as his feet kicked a bucket of abandoned tools that he could not see in the dark. He lay flat on the stone, looking around fruitlessly, for he could see nothing, but the sound echoed loudly and for such a time that he knew he was in a large mining cavern.

The echoes slowly died, and as if in answer, there came a rumbling from deep below, _doom_. It froze Aragorn’s heart, and he lay flat, still. _Doom doom_. He felt a vibration in the mountain and at once an unmistakable light seemed to rise in the cavern, bathing all in an orange and pink glow. The strange light showing him the way, he stood and found a doorway leading to steps that ascended up, but where he could not tell. The fall had disoriented him, and once on the right path, he now wandered aimlessly. _Doom_. Stone shook beneath his feet, and the light that grew from some far off point in the cavern became brighter. He quickly bounded up the stairs, forgetting the pain across his body from the fall.

At the top of the stairs he was in a long corridor that ran to his left and right. _Doom_. His head was spinning, and he could see another doorway on the opposite side of the corridor that led to even more stairs heading up. _Doom, boom_. To the left, the faint glow of light began to creep down the corridor. Though it the red and orange glow shone like a lamp carried around a corner, he felt at the center of the light a great shadow. _Boom_. He turned to the right and followed the corridor, but to where he did not know; dread followed him.

 _Doom, doom_. The corridor shook, and the fog in his head made keeping his balance difficult. He wiped away sweat and blood from his head and continued on, turning left down another wide corridor. _Doom_. He found himself running along the smooth stone floor toward a great chamber ahead, lit by the red glow that seemed to now fill the whole mountain. _Boom, doom_. But suddenly he stopped, as if a strong hand pressed against his chest. Though the light was ahead, slowly, it began to fade. A strange, dark shape crept across the floor ahead. _Doom_. A shadow fingered along the floor and walls, the light ahead died. _Doom, boom_. The hall ahead filled with impenetrable darkness, and Aragorn felt a fear lay upon him like nothing he had experienced before. _Boom, doom_. He turned and fled.

Frantically running, Aragorn felt the ground beneath him shake. _Doom_. A great cracking sound came behind him, and the corridor shook violently and he fell against the wall on his right. He turned, looking behind into the darkness. _Boom_. A great rumbling filled the corridor and the ground split before him, down the center of the corridor; a dreadful gap widening ahead of him. _Doom, boom_. He regained his feet and ran again; stones began to fall from overhead and the corridor shook violently. _Doom, boom_.

At last, he ran as fast as he could, and leaped; his chest collided with the stone ledge and he clung to it desperately. He slowly pulled himself up. _Doom_. The corridor rumbled. The mountain shook. _Doom, doom_. And suddenly, the stone gave way. He fell, down, down into darkness, to the roots of the mountain. _Doom, boom_. He heard overhead; looking up, the great shadow, surrounded by its red glow seemed to look down upon him. _Doom, boom_. All went dark. _Doom_.


	4. A Light in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn falls deep into the abandoned mines of Moria. Memories of his mother drive him onward, and he recalls the light and the strength that he carries within him. His journey through Khazad-dum continues.
> 
> I'm continuing to post my backlog almost daily until I catch up to the point in the story that I am currently writing. Then, my posts will likely shift to weekly, or bi-weekly.

Darkness and stone enclosed Aragorn in a space barely large enough for his frame. He lay atop a pile of stones that tumbled down the chasm before him. His body bent across them, his limbs lay across his chest, pinned beneath his body, and pinned beneath stone. Blood, now dry, covered half his face and one eye. There was neither sound, nor movement. The deep booming in the mountain now returned to nothing, and Aragorn would ever question whether his eyes saw truly before plunging into the widening gap.

Aragorn awoke slowly, his head spinning and his eyes heavy. He brought one shaking hand up from his chest and touched his face. He tried to sit up, but managed only to roll partially on his side to free his left arm, pinned beneath him. With both hands he grasped desperately in the dark, feeling the stone all around. A wall stood to his right, and he guessed that he lay beside it and the cavern was open enough for him to reach the full length of his arm before touching stone to his left. 

Attempting to move, he found that one of his feet lay pinned beneath a stone and he sat up slowly, pebbles and broken stone falling around him, filling the dark cavern with a grating noise. He reached down to his foot and barely lifted a stone enough to pull his boot free. He breathed heavily, and he fell back again, resting against a wide flat stone. The chill air became apparent as his senses returned, but he could think little beyond the throbbing in his head, the sharp pain in his foot, and the dull aching across the rest of his body.

At last he brought his body forward and held onto the stone to his left, sitting upright. He leaned forward and sat for a while, breathing heavily. His hands felt around him and his fingers pushed something aside, which scraped across the stone floor. Feeling it blindly he could sense its sharp edges and it was large enough to hold in his hand. His heart sank as he realized the full blade he carried had shattered beneath him. He hung his head, holding the broken blade in his hands.

Aragorn put his hands to the floor and attempted to push himself up, pulling a foot in, and trying to stand; but he could not push further, and the weight of his body was more than he could bear. He collapsed once more, breathing heavily in the cold, his eyes wet and stinging. There was no measure of time, and he lay without moving for what could have been moments, or many of the long number of years that remained ahead of him, though, he thought that now he would never see them. In his despair, he fell asleep.

—

The valley of Imladris was bright and a pleasant wind blew Aragorn’s hair around his face, but he tied it back behind his head. Standing in his room, he looked out over the valley, covered in trees, and the Bruinen loudly gurgling over rocks and falls, bringing a pleasant wave of noise to him, mingled with singing birds and the rustling of leaves. On the bed was his usual pack of supplies for whenever he set out ranging: a bow, carved himself, and not looking as fine as those made in Imladris; a small bundle of arrows tied together; his long sword in its leather scabbard; and beside it, the broken blade of Elendil. He buckled the long sword around his waist and tied the arrows and bow to his pack, but left the broken heirloom on the bed. Staring at it, the blade shimmered in the morning light coming in through the window. He became lost in the shining blade and the reflection of the room and light within. He thought he heard voices on the wind that seeped into his mind, ancient and deep they were, desperate, yet not weak.

Suddenly, a voice from behind awakened him, “Aragorn?” Gilraen stood there, a bundle of cloth beneath her arm. “I wish you would not set out so soon,” she continued, entering the room and standing beside him.

“My heart is restless, as are my feet,” Aragorn said, avoiding his mother’s eyes and going through the contents of his pack, though he had already checked them twice before. “Going out on the road feels best right now.”

“If your heart stirs for the wild, then I understand. But, are you sure you cannot assuage it with good company and comfort of home? There is much here you could learn and those whose counsel you could heed, if the recent news troubles you,” Gilraen said.

Aragorn sighed and stopped. He looked up across the room, for he knew if he met his mother’s gaze, he would likely falter, and still he could not bury the conflict within him at the news she and Elrond had given him only a few weeks prior. “I understand, mother. I know you would have me stay, and I admit setting out is rash, and I cherish your counsel, and that of Elrond. But, I must come to terms with what you have told me on my own. I must seek the advice of my heart, and I fear I can only do so in solitude.”

Gilraen nodded and hanging her head, she wished not to press her son further. She knew his mind was made up, and though she wished against it, he would leave Imladris for the first time under his own true name. She sheltered him for many years in Imladris, and each time he left before, with the sons of Elrond, or on his own, she felt a tether between them, that he would safely return, for no orc or servant of the enemy knew his true name, and true worth. But now, the threat grew and her fear, which had long settled, was now renewed. At last, she laid the cloth bundle on the bed and began to unwrap it.

“Elrond wished you to carry this,” she said. “Do not leave the sword behind, and you shall carry it in this.” The cloth held a leather scabbard, but shortened, as if to carry a long knife, such as those carried by Elrorhir. “I know the sword, and this news may weigh on you now, but I see in the future that it will shine brightly, and one day, you will carry it proudly, as a light unto the free world. You will remember the light when you need it most.”

Aragorn quivered, and he looked at her with love, and embraced her tightly. Their tears mingled, and she held him in her arms, until at last he pulled away. “I shall carry it, and though I do not know what strength I may draw from it, I know the strength that you give me, and it could best any foe.”

Gilraen tenderly put a hand to his cheek, “Be safe, my son. I shall see you upon your return.”

—

When Aragorn awoke again, he looked up and instead of pure darkness above, a light projected in a soft beam from an opening on the left wall of the stone shaft. He could hardly see the size of the hole, but the sight of it warmed his heart, and his body, still aching and throbbing in pain, seemed lighter. He lifted himself up, and in the pale light, managed to slowly stand. He fell against the wall to his right and leaned against it, breathing heavily. He clutched his left arm close to his chest and he could still only move it slowly and with great pain.

Looking up the shaft, the ray of light reached across from a hole that he could now see, a shaft carved in the stone for ventilation. The pile of rubble and large broken stone upon which he once laid reached higher up the wall than he presently stood. Reaching up the left wall, he climbed onto a stone that lay against it and his searching fingers found the rim of the opening, not quite a full arm’s length above his head. He let out a heavy breath and brought his arm down again, knowing he’d have to exert all his strength to pull himself into the opening.

He climbed down from the stone and unbuckled the scabbard of his long sword and left it on the floor of the shaft with the other broken pieces. The broken, ancient blade now hung at his side, alone, but unharmed. He lightened his pack of any unneeded items and cinched it tightly to his body. His bow and few remaining arrows he left there, also. Climbing back atop the stone, he faced the wall and with a great force, he leaped, his arms reaching the edge of the opening. He pulled with all his might, his left arm burning, a flame passing through his arm, shoulder, and chest. Aragorn let out a great cry and pulled his body up, bending finally at the waist and lying half inside the ventilation shaft.

It sloped gently upward, and ahead he could see a faint light, but the passage was long, and square, but barely large enough for him. He found finger holds along the floor and sides of the shaft and pulled his weight up and forward. Once his whole body lay inside, he pushed with his feet, his shoulders cramped and scraping against the walls. He turned awkwardly on his side, lying diagonally in the square chamber and began to push and pull his way up. He felt trapped and panicked with each passing second, for he would find himself momentarily stuck, or so he thought, only to then push himself forward again with great effort.

At long last he reached the end, and tumbled out of the ventilation shaft in a heap on a new stone floor. He breathed heavily, but he closed his eyes and laughed, which was cut short by the pain in his arm. Aragorn rolled over and stood inside a large chamber, lit by pale moonlight from long shafts in the mountain overhead. He stood among abandoned mines, with steps carved into stone and great holes in the floor. Rotting wood lay about, and great scaffolds stood at the rim of the mineshafts.

The cavern stood quiet, and Aragorn looked around, the relief of escaping the tight enclosure of the mineshaft faded away; resignation replaced it. His shoulders dipped and he held his left elbow in his right hand. He felt stuck in place, and thought to the long dark that he could not escape. Some unknown force turned him back just as he neared the western door of Moria. He could not yet escape, and he searched for a reason. He sat on the cold stone floor of the chamber, convinced that the mountain strove against him. Memory of his mother and her counsel to stay in Imladris came back to him, now. Aragorn spoke words of regret and apology in his mind, to her, though she could not hear, and was far away. As usual, she was right, he could find no validation alone, in the dark.

But Aragorn remembered his mother’s strength, and though he drew his line from his father, through the years and age, down to Isildur and Elendil, it was Gilraen who stood with him now. He remembered back when he was young, how she held him and he would fall asleep on her lap as they sat in the grass, beneath the groves in Imladris. Days of just the two of them, wandering through the valley. He ran through streams and thickets, chasing rabbits and squirrels, and she always called him back; he always returned. His father, who he never knew, delivered to him a legacy and responsibility that he now had to carry; but Gilraen carried him, then and now, and suddenly, Aragorn’s heart was aflame, and he stood, a new determination beating back the pain in his limbs and the fatigue throughout his body.

From the large chamber of mines, he found silent caverns that twisted upward and around, roughly hewn, and mostly carved naturally by ancient waters that he found still dripping and coating the walls around him. Aragorn’s footfalls were quiet and as he walked, he felt his path rising and turning, and his heart rose at the same time. The caverns slowly became passageways where dwarven hands and picks had more clearly shaped the stone. The floor was smooth and the passage more square. He came up stairs and ultimately to a hall with three doorways whose paths branched left, down, and up and to the right. Instinctively he chose the path up and continued on with strength renewed.


	5. Not All Lights Extinguished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn is washed to the very roots of the mountain by an underground river. There, in the depths of the earth, dark dangers lurk, and unknown creatures soon pursue him.

Aragorn sat on the edge of a stone well and peering inside, a foul smell blew up from whatever water remained below. He shielded his face in the crook of his arm and turned away. His water skin empty, he continued on without drink. The well appeared to him in the large chamber as a sign of hope, but as it had been ever since he entered Moria, hope was dashed as quickly as it rose up. But, the journey thus far had strengthened him nonetheless, and the thirst had not yet overpowered him.

On he traveled, through many roads of Moria, and dark passageways led into branching paths, and he chose as best he could. Though, he thought he traveled the same roads more than once, and the lack of light or passage of time made the journey almost impossible to track in his mind. As he continued in one direction or another, the pain in his shoulder was dull and his left arm remained stiff as he held it tight to his body.

Down yet another dark path, Aragorn heard and felt vibrations in the cavern, and a low rumble shaking the stone around him. He felt the wall with his right hand and pulled it away, wet with a slimy water that seemed to cling to the wall. The air became thicker as he moved forward, moisture mixing with the cold air. Along with the rumble of an underground waterway, he heard the soft drops of water hitting the stone floor. It soon fell onto his head and body, and a debate entered his mind whether he should turn away from the weeping tunnel.

He could not turn back, for Aragorn was not even sure in which direction he traveled. Despair was not on him yet, and at least the water and air felt fresh and cool. His boot suddenly splashed into a stream that crossed his path, no more than ankle deep. A strange pale light from a source he could not find, lit the passage ahead and he saw there many fingers of a greater waterway running left to right as the passage slanted in that direction. They cut across the tunnel and for an immeasurable span of time, slowly cut into the stone floor.

His thirst tight in his throat, he took the risk and knelt down to cup the cold water in his hand. The cool water was refreshing, but carried in it a strange taste, but he did not think as he drank more from the running stream. A rumble overhead stopped him, and he looked up as the tunnel shook once more. The vibration nearly knocked him over, but he stood and heard the crumbling of stone in the dark. Loud cracks and crashes filled the tunnel and a wind from where he came hit him, along with a cloud of dust and dirt. Water poured in along the floor up to his feet, and he backed across the small stream.

The rumbling ceased and the trickle of water and the falling of a few pebbles came from the dark, and he guessed the tunnel behind him collapsed. It forced his hand, and he continued forward, past the tiny streams and even crossing a wider, ankle-deep rush of water. Aragorn had not traveled far before noticing a hole cut into the rock. Stones that were long ago cut into rectangular shapes were lying on the floor, removed deliberately from the wall, creating an opening. Some of the stones were even stacked like stairs into the hole.

Aragorn looked inside and felt the cave wall and floor, noticing that it was merely tall enough for him to stand, bent over at the waist, a little more than half his height. He shrugged his one good shoulder and climbed into the tunnel, and almost crawling, he followed it forward, and it slightly angled upward. The floor was smooth, but he could still find footing along the way, and he felt his hand on the wall as he went. The journey through the tunnel forced him to use his left arm, as well, which sent sharp stabs of pain through his arm and chest. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and continued, scraping and sliding along in the cramped space.

The pain in his shoulder at last forced him to pause for a moment. He sat sideways in the tunnel, catching his breath. The small space began to wear on him, for his limbs were long and his back bent almost in half. A pain rose also in his neck, but these were more annoyances than genuine ailments. He grumbled and rubbed his shoulder, his left arm lying in his lap. But, suddenly, he heard movement in the tunnel. A light grew behind him, the dancing of red flame along the stone. The footfalls were of an irregular pace and one seemed to fall heavier than the other. He heard the clattering of armor, and slowly, the breathing and grumbling of an orc voice.

There was little he could do in the small space as a squat goblin appeared behind him, carrying a torch. The sight of Aragorn’s large limbs curled up in the tunnel stopped the creature in its tracks. It both cried out in alarm and anger, an awkward squeal that the goblin tried to mask with an angry growl. It drew a small curved knife and sprang forward.

Aragorn tried to reach for the goblin before the knife struck. The blade cut across his arm as he reached, but Aragorn, in his fury, struck the Goblin in the head, and clutched its arm that held the blade. In the small space, Aragorn could think of little to do but strike with his fists, until he suddenly remembered the only weapon he still carried. The space was small, but the broken blade measured little more than a foot in length.

The goblin struggled wildly and its blade fell to the stone floor between them and Aragorn held it back from leaping onto him. Its teeth gnashed and it flopped trying to free itself from Aragorn’s strong grip, or bite the grasping hand. With his free hand, though it was the left that ached, Aragorn reached to his side, contorting his body, and finding the hilt with his fingers. He pulled with the searing pain in his shoulder and his fingers gripped tightly. The blade flashed in the firelight, the torch lying on the tunnel floor. The goblin shrieked and Aragorn was able to plunge the blade into its chest as they both collapsed in a heap together. The goblin faded and Aragorn’s breaths heaved in the silence.

Breaking the silence, the rumbling returned, but this time stronger and louder than before. The tunnel shook and Aragorn managed to return the broken blade to its sheath. He began to crawl as best he could, but suddenly, the tunnel broke all around him, and a powerful rush of water filled the space, hitting him with force, and tossing him about. The tunnel walls broke and he felt weightless in the torrent. The water drowned the torchlight and Aragorn was plunged into a cold darkness. The water rushed through tunnels and broke through passageways and he tumbled blindly, pulled along until he crashed against stone and lost all reckoning of time or place.  
\---  
Aragorn’s arm reached above the surface of the water and gripped a small fingerhold on an embankment of rocks. He pulled himself onto the flat stone that sloped beneath the water. Coughing and spitting up water, he laid on his side until he could breathe clearly again; he rolled onto his back and drew long, deep breaths until his head was spinning. The sudden rush of water deposited him in a large, natural chamber beneath the mountain. A strange light filled the cave, and it reflected off the water, which ran in one direction.

Looking around the cave, Aragorn saw that he sat upon a large domed rock that fell into the water all around him. It sloped upwards behind him and more steeply dropped into the water than where he now sat. Several feet away was another great rock rising from the water, as if he sat on the head of a great carved statue lying on its side, and the shoulder and body rose above the surface. There was enough of the glimmering light to see around the chamber, but Aragorn stayed put, resting his arms on his knees and his head on his crossed arms.

It was then that he felt the sharp pain of the goblin’s knife once more, and he lifted his head and saw his arm cut from the forearm almost to his elbow. He felt around in his belt and pouches and found a small, wet remnant of Athelas, barely enough to heal, but at least enough to hold back any further rot. He filled the cut with the soft mix and hoped it would stay well enough. Slowly, the herb numbed the pain and Aragorn stood and looked around the cave.

With water all around, he saw no escape, other than to follow the flow that led to his left and beneath the cave wall. Though the idea froze him, for he could drown with no chance of finding air beneath the mountain. He felt lost and alone, for even a goblin could not chance its way down into the cave and underground lake. As he began to sit again, to think, a small glimmer caught his eye. He crawled up the domed rock and lying on his stomach, peered beneath the water’s surface on the other side, where light danced on the cave wall. Beneath the waters he could see a shimmering, like gold and silver.

Whether it was another chamber, or simply ancient dwarven goods fallen to the foundations of the mountain, he could not know. But he took a deep breath and jumped from the rock, splashing beneath the water and swimming his way down to it. Treasure, indeed, as he swam not more than several feet before he could reach out and scoop gold from the bottom, a cloud of sand and pebbles kicked up by his hand. He returned to the surface to catch his breath, and dove once more.

The second time, he saw that the gold shimmered further away, and brighter than that below him. The cave wall did not reach the floor of the lake, and with a strong kick he swam to it and beneath it. On the other side was a large pool, shimmering in a blue and green light. Gold and silver seemed to fill the bottom, and there were chests and jars, stones and weapons all about. He pushed to the surface and with a deep exhale, broke through the water, the sound echoing in a smaller chamber. Looking down beneath the water he realized the silver shimmering below was mithril, the legendary jewel of Khazad-dum that made the dwarven realm prosperous.

Aragorn swam across the surface and the water became shallow enough to stand, and then he walked out on stone steps beneath the water that led to a wide floor. Veins of mithril climbed up the wall and he ran his hand over them. Light peered in through a passageway with no door entering the chamber. It was clear to him now that he stood in some ancient treasury, or armory, cut by perhaps Durin himself. Perhaps it was a room ready to be a mine, but used for storage until they could properly cut the mithril from stone.

He had no time to search the weapons and armor below the water, and the gold did him no good. The light out in the passage filled him with hope, yet a strange feeling began growing in his stomach and on the back of his neck. He was indeed cold and wet, but he did not shiver from the cold, but an odd fear of something he could not see.

He gave one last look around in the chamber and walked out into the passageway and found it led to a shaft, which sloped upwards, for what seemed like an impossible distance. An old, makeshift ladder stood there, and Aragorn could see the stone broken overhead in other passageways that led off the main one. There was wood scaffolding built into the stone in places, also, but they did not appear sound. He hesitated at the foot of the ladder, unsure of it, before stepping onto it and testing its strength. Slowly, he climbed a few rungs, and shifted his weight around, judging the ladder to be at least adequate.

But some invisible force held him still. He could not climb; could not force his limbs to move further. His heart raced and he leaned his head on the ladder. To his left, in a black cleft in the stone, something moved. Aragorn could not yet see it, his eyes closed, but long tentacled legs, like those of a spider, spread from the cleft, silently stretching in the air and groping the stone floor. The black limbs were hard and had a rough outer appearance like bark on a tree. Four stretched out, but then their ends seemed to split once more into thin fingers. They crawled across the stone floor and wrapped around the base of the ladder. One groped along the shaft wall, into the corner, bending with the stone and following the wall, still.

The fingers reached up and tickled Aragorn’s boots, but it was the slight touch of his arm that alerted him. He gasped and looked up. The sight of the black arm reaching for his face filled him with fear; he tried to move but the fingers on his boots wrapped tightly and he fell backward, off the ladder and onto the stone. The groping arms did not move in haste, but rather they slowly slid down the stone toward him, and he saw them coming for him to his left. In a panic, he drew the ancient blade, and the mere presence of it seemed to send a shiver through the fingers curled around his foot and ankle. They shook, and Aragorn sat up and cut at the black trunk.

The blade rang but did not pierce the surface. However, the touch of the blade made the arm quiver, and the fingers became limp and he swung the blade at them once more and they let go. There was no sound of distress, but suddenly the nameless creature, of which Aragorn could only see these groping limbs, quivered and the arms waved, the fingers swaying and coming back together as one large tentacle. Aragorn leapt for the ladder again, put his sword away and frantically climbed.

He heard the arms below him gripping the ladder, so tightly the wood began to creak and crack. Climbing rapidly, he leapt and reached overhead to a beam in the scaffold, leaving the ladder and pulling himself up. The ladder below cracked and splintered. It suddenly pulled away and the black arms twisted around it and broke it in pieces. Another ladder went from the scaffold frame up further, and Aragorn began climbing again.

Unable to measure the distance, and his fear and determination outweighing the pain and the weariness in his body, he climbed many ladders. At last, he heard the roaring of a falls and saw above him clear moonlight and stars peeking out beneath clouds. He reached the last ladder and nearly threw himself over the rim of the shaft. The roaring all around him was deafening as he found himself lying on a flat rock surface in the middle of the Dimrill Stair. Great waterfalls fell on either side of him, and he was not a far distance above Mirrormere.

Collapsing on the ground, he breathed heavily and began weeping, not of sadness but relief. All senses returned to his body, which felt beaten and stiff. The world spun around him and his mind became cloudy. His ears rang from the sound of the falls. Many months before, he felt betrayed and suddenly alone, but no loneliness was there greater than the darkness of Moria. Like Durin, he sought proof of his lineage and destiny in the stars. Yet, the earth could not declare him king of Gondor, and as Elrond himself said, such a distinction he had not yet earned.

Whether he sought confirmation or punishment in Moria, he returned alive. Though, he felt no closer to his father, the great kings of Men, or any great rulers that walked above and below Middle-earth. His mother was right, he could find no answers alone. His fingers found the hilt of the ancient blade at his side. In the greatest moments of terror and danger, it somehow shone, he knew it and saw it, though he could not explain it. Even amid utter darkness, he found not all lights extinguished.


	6. The Children of Elrond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the darkness of Moria now behind him, Aragorn and Arwen travel together westward, over the mountains by the Redhorn Pass. The peaks carry ill memories for both of them, and though they met before in Imladris, a bond begins to grow between them, as Aragorn sees her strength and wisdom in a new setting.

A cold wind out of the north and west shook Aragorn awake from the deep, dreamlike memory of his passage through Moria. He stood now, leaning on the Stone of Durin, staring up at the Dimrill-gate, which he passed through only months before. The dale was quiet and peaceful, as the sun still stood high above the mountain peaks ahead, though She began to descend slowly behind them, casting long rays of light between them. The light danced across the Mirrormere and Aragorn gazed longingly across the still water. He breathed a heavy sigh as behind him he heard the soft, warm voice of an Elf.

“Aragorn?” She said. Her approach was imperceptible, even to him, as she made no sound upon the pebbles and soft grass. “Are you okay? I sense a shadow upon you, as I have for many days since we left.”

He turned and forced a smile, though looking upon Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond, sent a warmth to his heart and his face brightened as if her mere presence pushed the shadow of memory away. “My lady,” he bowed his head gently. “I am simply recalling my time in Moria. Being so near the Gate once more, it carries an ill memory,” he looked back to the gate as she stepped beside him. “I will be glad when we begin our climb and pass out of this valley.”

She tenderly laid a hand on his arm, though, he could sense in her no affection beyond the care that one gives a grieving companion. “Moria has become a dark place, but you are among friends here. Come, sit with us, and if you wish, you may tell the tale, or forget it.”

“I wish not to speak of it, not so close to the Pit, which still chills my heart. The fire will be welcome, and I would much rather hear stories of Lothlorien from you and your kin,” said Aragorn.

She led him back toward their camp where two Elves who traveled with them from the northern fences of Lothlorien had set a fire and prepared their camp as comfortably as one could expect. Their four horses, grazed without care nearby, their white coats seeming to shine on their own in the growing dim of twilight. The mount that Aragorn rode was now free of its tack and though it carried him graciously, he could now see that it seemed more alight and its spirit high as it stood freely with its kin. Their camp sat beneath the boughs of a great tree, and though the Elves of Lothlorien slept high in the boughs of their Mallorn trees, here, no such accommodations could be made, so they begrudgingly set their belongings on the ground.

Aragorn and Arwen sat opposite one another and Aragorn leaned back upon a saddle and a bundled blanket. They ate and drank and the two Elves that accompanied them sang songs as the night fell and the moon rose. They called out to him and their clear voices seemed to lay a shroud over Aragorn’s eyes and a cloud in his mind. The memory of Moria drifted away and he heard the wind softly in the trees, the crackling of the flames, and the soft voice of the waters falling over the Dimrill Stair and into the lake echoing in the valley. He smoked his pipe and watched the stars overhead. The Elves kept watch as he drifted off to sleep, his final sight being the Lady Arwen across from him, her bright face glowing with the fire between them. She sat upright, but she had fallen into a waking sleep, as Elves often do. He nodded and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The morrow came and the sun shone brightly for them, casting aside all shadows in the dale, and pressing away clouds at the mountains’ peaks. Aragorn brushed his hand gently along the neck of the horse that carried him this far and spoke to her softly. From here on he and Arwen would go on foot, and their companions would leave them to return to Lothlorien. Arwen was dressed in brown pants and a white tunic, covered with a warm brown vest, and around her shoulders a brown cloak was clasped with a chain. Her dark hair was braided and pulled back and she carried a pack without burden. Aragorn looked upon her with surprise as he had never seen a lady so fair and of such great lineage in such a way. She seemed to notice his gaze and laughed.

“Did you expect to carry all up the mountain, Dunedan, myself included?” She remarked.

Aragorn’s face flushed with embarrassment, “No, my lady,” he responded. “I simply have not traveled with a lady of your esteem before.”

She smirked and shrugged her shoulders to adjust her pack, “Well, though my father did not enjoy it, I have traveled in wild places many times, for my brothers could seldom do so without me in years past.” Aragorn nodded and smiled, and he saw her in a different light, no less fair and beautiful, but strong and unwavering. Aragorn checked his own pack, filled with coats lined with fur, Elven bread, Lembas, and flasks of the Elven draught, which would sustain them over the cold and snowy pass. He hefted it onto his back and they spoke words of departure with the Elves that came with them. They rode off south as Aragorn and Arwen walked westward along the side of Mirrormere.

Above them stood Caradhras, the greatest of the mountains of Moria. Sheer and treacherous were its sides, and its shoulders and peak were covered in a silver snow. Beside it stood Celebdil and Fanuidhol and Aragorn looked upon them with wonder but also fear, knowing the mountain pass to be treacherous. They marched onward into the morning as the sun stood at their backs and as it crossed from the east into the bright sky overhead, it led them on their way. It was near noon when they climbed the Dimrill Stair, zig-zagging up the rocky steps. Arwen kept pace with Aragorn, and they climbed side-by-side, and her constitution was clear to him, now, for while his breathing labored with each step up into the heights, she moved with ease and the light in her face did not fade, but mingled now with a pink hue on her cheeks. He knew many elves who traveled as light as the wind upon grass and snow, and he admired her more than ever, and her beauty was now commingled with a great underlying strength and grace that he recognized then why she had been named Undomiel, Evenstar.

The sun began to pass in front of them and down behind the mountains, casting a red and orange light across the face of Caradhras, which was rightly called Redhorn in the common tongue. Its great peak was now pink and its naked sides red, and the dwindling light on the eastern side made their passage any further dangerous. They halted, and though they did not travel with great urgency, they had come a good ways, and the valley stretched out below them, Mirrormere now little more than a glassy puddle it seemed to them from such a height. They laid their burdens down upon the rocky ground beneath a natural outcropping above that shielded them from wind and sight. Aragorn, though, lit a fire with the fuel that he brought and they sat without worry. Aragorn took watch as Arwen slept, and he stood just outside the firelight, looking up and around at the path ahead. Above them the rock rose in a slant that could not be traveled, and the path wound its way left, then right, around the cliff face. He could not see beyond the turn ahead, and the outcropping behind him at least shielded their firelight from casting too far, for though they had no cause to worry thus far, the pass was dangerous at greater heights.

As the night deepened, the wind blew in from the east and swirled about, whistling against the rocks. On the voice of the wind, Aragorn heard also a howling that sent cold down his back. Unmistakably, a second howl answered, and he turned his ear and lifted his face to the air, catching the sounds and smells that the wind carried. Wargs he sensed, and the howls continued, though no sign or rumor of them could he glean from the rock as he laid down and pressed his ear to it. The mountain fell silent as morning came.

The next day they marched and climbed upward, leaving the Stair behind and traveling now through the rocky crags, though Aragorn led them on paths that were easiest. The air grew thin and cold in the morning, and the sun warmed them only near the noon hour. Patches of snow began to greet them in the places where shadows ever stayed. They stopped by night once more, high on the mountain’s south side. They sat there with a small fire, but Aragorn began to unpack the fur-lined coat given to him in Lothlorien, for the cold sank deeper into his bones with each passing moment. He drank a small sip of the Elf draught and handed the flask to Arwen and across the fire he caught for a moment a glimpse of weariness in her.

“Are you alright, my lady?” He asked hesitantly.

“I am not weary from the day’s march, if that is what you ask,” she responded sharply.

“That was not my intent,” said Aragorn. “But, now that we have climbed higher, I have noticed that you carry something greater than the physical burdens we each have brought with us.” She looked at him and he could feel her gaze piercing through him, though not cruelly. She looked into him and searched him, and he knew that she sought safety, and he sat still, with clear and affirming thoughts.

At last she spoke quietly, “Indeed, I grow weary as we approach the shoulders of the mountain, for it is here that my mother was taken by orcs.” She looked into the fire and the light from it danced in her eyes and Aragorn saw them become wet and sorrowful. “I have passed from Imladris to Lothlorien many times since then, and each time my heart is heavy, knowing she too once made such a journey, but one that ended cruelly.”

“I have heard your brothers speak of this before, though they carry a deep hatred in them now, and the word is a curse upon their lips,” said Aragorn.

“My brothers seek vengeance, and I, too, at times would enjoy such revenge. But no such deed could grant me the peace that I ultimately seek. And the dead could not grant me the wish to look upon my mother once more.”

“You shall see her again, when you make your passage West,” Aragorn said, searching for a means to comfort her with the thought of her own immortality, that which he could not enjoy, and that Man ever envied in the Elves.

She smiled, “A comfort to Men it may be to live forever. I shall see my mother again, but an age of this world or more may pass before such a time.” She knew his thoughts and spoke wisely, and Aragorn listened to her as he often did to Elrond in times when he spoke. “Countless lives of Men shall pass ere I see her again, and though Men seek comfort in the thought, therein lies a profound grief for me and my people.” Aragorn nodded and spoke no more of it, for her face was solemn and her mind drifted away from him and the present moment.

He reflected on her words for a time until suddenly, a howling echoed in the distance and he looked up and stood quickly. Yet another howl came in answer, and this one much closer to them than the last. Aragorn stared into the darkness as his eyes adjusted from the fire, and he looked and listened closely. From a dense shadow, a pair of cold, bright eyes shone and stared back at him. He took a breath and drew the broken blade from its sheath and it glistened in the starlight. He stiffened his back as the eyes moved about and he knew the warg paced to and fro, judging the danger ahead.

“Stay behind me, lady Arwen,” Aragorn said to her.

“Do not think me helpless, Dunedan,” said Arwen, and she boldly stepped forward, a knife in her hand. Aragorn looked at her with awe and she stood beside him, her jaw clenched and her back stern as steel, for she too carried the power and strength that he had seen in her brothers many times before.

The warg at last lunged forward and Aragorn sought to block it with the weight of his body. It swiped heavily with its front paws and Aragorn took it upon his shoulder and swung his blade, cutting deep into its fur. The beast yelped and nearly fell upon him, but it snarled and turned and bounded into the night. A howling there came again, echoing as many voices joined the chorus, sensing the wounding of their prey, and one of their pack. Arwen quickly looked at his shoulder and felt the wound, but the thick fur coat that he wore held back the beast’s claws and it did little but cut into the coat and scratch the leather that he wore beneath it.

“You are unharmed,” she said. “There are still many hours of the night, perhaps we should both keep watch.”

“I believe we may be beset once more ere the night is over,” replied Aragorn. “I have wounded one, but many voices I heard on the wind, and their pack is likely to encircle prey that they believe to be wounded.”

From the darkness, they suddenly heard the cry and whimper of a warg silenced quickly, and the calls of another, a ringing as if teeth on steel, and then silence once more. They both stood close together, and at the ready, but no further danger emerged from the dark. A figure they saw walk towards them, and they did not drop their blades at first, until he came closer to the light. For coming toward them was an Elf, who sheathed a long knife and at last he came close to light his face and they saw that it was Elladan, Arwen’s brother, and twin of Elrohir.

“Elladan!” she cried, and moving toward him, they embraced warmly.

“Greetings, brother,” said Aragorn, and they embraced as well.

“Two I have slain in the dark,” he said. “One carried a wound. Who delivered it? Was it you, Aragorn, or was it my sister who bested your knife-work?” Elladan laughed.

“A lucky blow did I land, but the beast fled before her,” Aragorn said.

“Where is our brother?” Arwen asked with concern.

“Fear not, he is ahead, watching the pass on high Caradhras. When the message reached us that you were setting out from Lothlorien, we left Imladris at once, for the pass has become dangerous. Wolves and worse have we seen on our way. I fear that even our road to Imladris in the west shall be dangerous,” Elladan told them. “But, I will travel with you from here, and we shall meet our brother on the high pass.”

Aragorn and Arwen were both comforted seeing Elladan, and knowing that Elrohir stood watch upon the pass ahead. Elladan sat with them by the fire, he was dressed in grey and beneath a thick cloak he wore a simple tunic and trousers, seemingly untroubled by the cold. At his waist were two long knives, and from his pack a bow could be seen, and yellow-feathered arrows wrapped together. His hair was dark akin to Arwen, and his face was at once youthful and stern as a warrior of old. His eyes were grey, and in them a light shone like distant stars, and Aragorn knew him by the light in his eyes.

Elladan told them of news from the road ahead, for Aragorn was chiefly concerned with such reporting. He listened of their journey south from Imladris. Wolves and orcs they encountered upon the road, and many fled before them. To Arwen he told news of home, and their father, and a warmth came into her, and she brightened, dreaming of the sight and smells of the valley. For the night passed peacefully, and at the day’s rising, they set out from their camp and climbed up the shoulders of the mountains. The journey became treacherous, less for the wargs by day, and more for the loose stones and narrow pathways. They walked up and around the mountain on paths that fell many feet to their left, while the mountain rose high on their right. A bitter wind blew chill, swirling about them at all times. Aragorn walked with bent back and shielded his face.

As they climbed higher, there came a great snowstorm from clouds that gathered quickly in the afternoon. They stopped and Aragorn huddled against the mountainside on the right and clutching his chest, he bent his head to his knees, the fur cloak shielding him from the wind. Arwen sat beside him, close to him and they were soon surrounded by piling snow. Elladan walked lightly upon it, and shouting back to Aragorn over the wind, called that he would scout ahead for a place to get out of the wind. It was some time before the Elf returned, shielding his face with his slender hand, he tapped Aragorn’s shoulder and beckoned him to follow. Arwen followed as well, clutching Aragorn’s hand as he held it back for her. The three went in a line, guided by Elladan’s steady presence and at last came to a cave in the mountain.

They passed through the opening and entered the dark tunnel that went into the mountain for some ways before ending in a circular chamber. The cave smelled strongly of warg, and all about lay the remnants of their past meals, from beast to orc, and bones to fur, and orc weapons and armor lay about also. Elladan lit a fire and the chamber was quickly filled with warmth and light, though the light passed outside and they could only see the swirling snow as it blew in and glittered in the firelight.

“I fear we have found shelter from the snow and wind, but have put ourselves in between a wolf and his den,” Arwen said.

“Indeed, we have,” said Elladan. “But here we have warmth and stone at our backs, and they can only attack from one direction.”

“I shall keep watch,” Aragorn said.

“Very well,” Elladan responded, and he at once laid down and drifted off. Arwen sat beside him, watching Aragorn stand tall against the firelight, the cold darkness before him, and she fell into sleep.

Aragorn shook Elladan awake several hours later, and the Elf sat up and saw that Aragorn’s sword was drawn, and he held a burning brand in his other hand. “What is it?” Elladan asked, quickly gaining his senses and standing to his feet.

“They have come to reclaim their den, before the rising of the sun,” Aragorn said.

Arwen awoke, too, and stood with them. Elladan drew his long knives, and Arwen stood behind him, and she lifted a brand from the fire. Aragorn stood beside Elladan and in the pale light of the encroaching morning, there came snarling shadows into the cave. Two entered, and they heard outside a howl, knowing that more would follow. Aragorn and Elladan did not back down, and Arwen stood resolute.

Suddenly, outside the cave, they heard a yelp and a shout, and the wargs at the door turned in alarm. At that moment, Elladan charged forth and Aragorn followed. The wargs turned back and bared their sharp fangs, but they fell swiftly. Another warg backed into the cave door, snarling at an unseen foe, and Elladan leapt and plunged his long knife into the creature’s neck and it fell silent.

As the light of morning grew and Aragorn dropped the brand to the cave floor, he shielded his eyes from the light outside and a call and shout he heard among the wind. An Elf dropped from the cave door above, light on his feet. “Ho there! If it is not my brothers and sister,” said Elrohir.

They put away their weapons and Elladan rushed to greet his twin brother. Arwen, too, rushed forward and kissed his cheek. Much like his brother, Elrohir was clad in grey and to any Man appeared ill-dressed for a snow-covered mountain. His hair was dark and fell to his shoulders, and his grey eyes, like his brothers, shining with starlight. But Aragorn saw that the light was different than that of his brother, like the night sky in a far-off place. Few could tell the brothers apart, and Aragorn knew them intimately.

“I feared for you amid this snowstorm, brother,” Arwen said to Elrohir.

“Take heart, then! For I am here, and frozen I am not. The hunt has kept me warm. I drove this pack from the pass and followed them here to their lair. I pondered what to do with them if they retreated inside, for ambush you they certainly would if you came by this way. But what good fortune that you already held the den against them!”

“We sought shelter from the storm, which has thankfully passed,” Elladan said, looking out the cave door into a bright morning. Below them, the rocky path plunged down a sharp cliff into clouds that shrouded the world below. They all stood outside the cave, looking south as a grey blanket lay on everything, with only the peaks of the mountains visible above. In the great distance stood Methedras, where the great range ended.

“The storm has passed, but snowdrifts now lie between us. It will be slow going for Aragorn, as he may have to plow his way forward with his strong limbs,” Elrohir said.

“I do not wish to carry him,” Elladan laughed.

Aragorn shouldered his pack once more and said, “As if your strength could hold me, brother. I shall walk upon my own two legs, snow or not.”

The four of them set out into the morning, and Elrohir led them, with Aragorn behind him, and Arwen third, and Elladan as rear guard. The sun shone brightly, but the air remained cold and thin. It bit at Aragorn’s face and turned his cheeks red. He pushed through the snow that stood in great windswept dunes in places along the trail. The Elves walked effortlessly upon its pillowy surface, leaving nary a footprint. As they walked, the pathway curved to and fro, and their travel was slowed at times by great snow dunes, which in places were so steep that even the Elves had to follow behind Aragorn as he cleared a path forward. Hour after hour they walked, and Aragorn drank of the Elf draught to clear his mind and straighten his back. One more night they spent on the shoulders of the mountain, before another dawn and the path’s downward slope greeted them.

As they descended, Aragorn breathed easier, and he shed his heavy coat. He and Arwen walked side-by-side as the path widened and sloped down into the west more leisurely. Elladan strode up to them and walked beside Aragorn. “We heard from the messenger of Lord Celeborn that you had come to Lothlorien after entering the Dimrill Gate, Aragorn,” he said. “You returned from the east? I would like to hear your tale of it.” Aragorn cast his eyes down at the path and did not answer. “And you wield only this shattered blade, which our father and your mother gave to you ere you left Imladris. What became of your long sword?”

Arwen could see Aragorn in a different light, and he appeared weary and his back bent, suddenly the road and many miles and toils appeared upon him and his face was dark and his eyes sank. “Do not ask him to tell such tales while we walk still in the wild. Moria is a dark and evil place, you of all should know what danger there is beneath the mountains,” she said to Elladan, her voice sharp and scolding. “If he wishes to tell it, the tale shall be heard in our home, where danger does not lie in every shadow.”

Elladan looked at his sister puzzlingly, but he knew the fire in her eyes and he gave up the line of questioning without debate. “Forgive me, brother. My sister is right. You shall choose the time to tell the tale, if such a time ever comes. I can live without hearing of it, because I already know its end, that you came out, and are here with us now. And that comforts me.” Elladan said, looking up into the bright, blue sky and the wild of Eriador stretching out below them.


	7. The Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn, Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir make it over the pass and into Eriador. But, the lands are still dangerous in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. They face an orc ambush and Aragorn fears what roads may lie ahead for him, now that he must carry the sword of Elendil, and the knowledge that comes with it, out into Middle-earth.

A cool, crisp morning lay over the wilds of Eriador as the sun peeked over the mountains. But the hills at the feet of the mountains were still shrouded in the final holds of night. A wet dew covered trees and grasses, which shimmered as the light grew. In the growing dawn, a dark figure moved through a small dell like a shadow. The dell lay between scattered hills and was filled with birch and a thick turf covered the ground. The trees croaked as the figure passed them by, or leaned its shoulder against the smoky white bark.

A goblin of the Misty Mountains, the figure lumbered slowly between the trees, its back bent, and its sharp eyes darting to and fro. The woods were silent and squirrels and birds sat on branches, cleaning the dew from their fur and feathers. The goblin pressed against a tree and its leaves seemed to shudder in an absent wind. The goblin’s ears were pointed and wide; they twitched, listening across the dell. A squirrel chattered overhead and the goblin snapped its eyes up and the squirrel sprang from the tree above to another and disappeared. Looking across the dell, the goblin saw there beneath the trees a group of elves. Three of them, two men and a woman, moved about, cleaning up a campsite and packing their things.

Reaching behind, it pulled a bow from its back and knocked a black arrow to the string. One of the elves, a man clad in grey, sat upon the turf as it brought a bite of bread to its mouth. His hair was long and dark, and it fell about his shoulders. The goblin pulled the bowstring taut and lifted the bow level, closing a yellow eye. All creatures in the dell fell silent and the air was thick and wet with the morning.

Suddenly, the twang of a bowstring and the singing of an arrow broke the silence. There followed another twang and the dull thud of an arrow into wood. Birds fled at once, squawking as they fled the trees, their wings flapping heavily. The elves looked up sharply and the elf seated on the ground sprang to his feet and they all looked around in alarm. 

Aragorn walked across the thick turf and eyed the body of the slain goblin. His arrow sat in the creature’s chest and its eyes were frozen skyward. Elladan saw him across the dell, standing over the grey body; his heart was racing, but then calmed as it became clear the danger had passed. He smiled and Aragorn looked back, as Elrohir and Arwen also looked toward him. Aragorn walked back to join them as the morning lifted.

“That is another you owe him, brother,” Elrohir laughed.

“I am not keeping count,” Aragorn said.

“And you are wise to not do so,” said Elladan. “For many a creature have I slain as it approached you unawares.”

“No wonder the creature was able to sneak within sight of us,” Arwen said, lifting her pack to her shoulders. “If you do not cease arguing, I am sure we’ll encounter more of them.”

“Your sister is right,” Aragorn said with a wry smile at Elladan. “Let us continue quietly. I know the way northwards, and will lead us.”

Elladan and Elrohir nodded and said no more, falling in behind Aragorn and Arwen. They walked out of the dell, and climbed hills where the grass became thin and weathered. The land folded with gentle hills that gave way to gentle valleys, but as they moved north, it became a more wild place, without path or road, but Aragorn seemed to ever be making his way toward something, as he adjusted his course here and there, skirting around a hill, or turning eastward into a valley, then righting himself north again. For many days they walked, and the lady Arwen seemed to keep pace with Aragorn, despite his long strides and times of sudden turns. At times, Elladan and Elrohir seemed to disappear into the twilight, silently returning to them without word.

The company stopped in the night, for they had little need of haste. Aragorn sat alone against a tree, keeping watch through the night as Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir slept. Their fire burned low, and he sat just outside its light. His hood was pulled over his head and his grey eyes pierced the night for many feet around them. Few but the elves, and Aragorn, knew this land, and though there was less danger than in the mountains, or the east, the sight of the goblin archer days before left Aragorn with a feeling of unease. Though, whether it was a sense of an approaching danger, or the eagerness to return home, he could not say. His thoughts drifted to a warm, soft bed, and the bright sunlight of the valley of Imladris, and the sweet smell of flowers, and the voice of the Bruinen as it tumbled through. He could almost hear it, and he closed his eyes and a smile played across his face.

But in the night, Aragorn heard the sound of snuffling and breathing as if through clenched teeth. Through the earth he could feel heavy footsteps accompanied by many light feet, but none belonging to elves or men. He sensed their coming, and heard the faint sound of clinking steel. He sat motionless, his grey cloak covering him, like an image of the Dunedain carved in stone. The wind was in the north, and he knew they could not detect him until they were in the camp. He wondered whether he should wake Elladan and Elrohir, or wait until he could overtake those who approached with surprise. They approached from the northeast, and he sat between them and the camp. He could smell the stench of orcs and of a wild beast, undoubtedly a warg that they commanded.

At last he stood slowly and crept in the shadow of the night to another tree, putting his back to it, facing the camp. He drew Narsil from his belt and it shone in the firelight. His heart raced and suddenly his body felt cold and fear washed over him. He opened his mouth but no sound escaped, only the fog of his heavy breaths. The enemy came closer, but Aragorn’s limbs felt heavy and his heart sank. He suddenly felt the darkness of Moria, as if it crept out of the mountain’s roots and across the hills, shrouding the fire in front of him. A cold wind blew, and voices he could hear now, harsh whispers in the dark.

Then, at last he cried, “Awake! Awake!”

Immediately, Elladan and Elrohir leapt to their feet, as if they were on the verge of waking already. Their weapons near at hand, Elrohir drew his long curved knives that glinted like silver; Elladan had already knocked an arrow to his bow. In the dark they heard the clashing of swords and shields. With their keen sight, they could see a skirmish outside the firelight. Elrohir rushed toward it as Elladan let loose his arrow.

Aragorn held the goblin’s arm with his left hand; its jagged, notched sword held high, unable to come down upon him. Suddenly, an arrow flew by him with a whisper, and hit the goblin in the shoulder. It fell to the grass. Aragorn looked up in time to see Elrohir leap over a thicket and drive his knife into the fallen goblin’s chest. Elrohir cried in his native tongue and moved through the dark, his knives shining like bright stars. Aragorn followed him.

Elladan stood still by the fire, as Arwen stood with him, knife in hand. Elladan let loose another arrow, then a second, piercing the thick fur of a warg. It cried out in anguish and it turned into the darkness. Elladan saw the flashing of bright steel and another cry from the warg, then it howled no more. From the dark, a heavy, tall orc approached; a long spear in its left hand, and a broad, dented circle shield in its right. It wore a crude mockery of an elven circlet upon its head, made of leather and bone. Elladan cursed and dropped his bow, drawing his sword and standing at the ready. The orc chieftain laughed cruelly and beat its spear upon its shield.

“Yrch,” Elladan spat. The chieftain came upon him, and Elladan parried its thrust, but his blade bounced off the shield and the orc used its heavy weight to knock Elladan back. He stumbled, and the chieftain walked slowly toward him. Elladan recovered and spun his blade in his hands, then charged. As he neared the orc, he ducked a thrust from its spear and cut low, striking its leg, the dark blood staining his bright blade. The chieftain seemed to notice the blow little, for it wheeled around and brought its spear down like a hammer; Elladan dropped to a knee and held his sword aloft, the spearhead crashing against it.

To their surprise, a figure moved swiftly behind the chieftain. As if floating on the wind, Arwen moved behind the chieftain and drove her knife into the back of its knee. The chieftain buckled, and Elladan jumped to his feet, holding the shaft of the orc spear, cleaving it in two. He tossed the spearhead into the dark and the chieftain staggered to its feet. It spit at Elladan and held up its shield, staggering forward with a great roar. A bow sang out over the din, and an arrow whistled, striking the orc chieftain in the side. It stumbled and Elladan leapt forward and plunged his blade into its chest as it dropped its shield.

From the dark came Aragorn and Elrohir, now carrying his bow, his knives sheathed, their work done. Aragorn knelt over the body of the chieftain and turned it onto its back, looking upon the raiment and the painted red flame there on its chest.

“They came not from following our trail,” Elladan said, catching his breath.

“No, they did not,” said Aragorn quietly, kneeling over the dead chieftain.

“What do you know of them, brother?” Elrohir asked.

Aragorn sighed and his shoulders sank. Elladan placed a hand on his shoulder. “These come from Moria, that much I know. I saw many orcs with such a sigil when I passed the Drimrill-gate nigh on two months ago. But, how they have come this far without us knowing, is a mystery to me. They did not follow our trail, as you said, Elladan, for you watched that way with care since we left the mountain pass. Perhaps there is some seam in the mountain near here, further north from that place, where they may come west. A door in the stone. As I watched, they approached from the north and east.”

“So our road may be guarded by more of them, though this seemed to be their chief,” Arwen said.

“Indeed,” Aragorn nodded. “If this was their captain, then they would look for his return. An absence would not go unnoticed, and they may come out in greater number, seeking vengeance.”

Elladan spat, “Let them come. Only one did I take this night.”

“Steady, brother,” Elrohir said. “We may fare well against a few, but even we four cannot stand against a company without preparation.”

Aragorn stood and looked at them. A fire burned within Elladan’s eyes and his face was grim; Elrohir looked calm, but no less fierce; and Arwen looked upon Aragorn, searching his face knowingly. Aragorn turned his eyes away from her and at length said, “I think we should move with greater speed, now. I am anxious to get home, and I would not oppose an uneventful road from here. Though I know your fires burn bright.”

Elladan and Elrohir knew that Aragorn was right, and they were not ranging to protect the fences of Imladris, but seeking passage home. They said no more. Arwen settled in and Aragorn sat by the dwindling fire, staring into the embers as the brothers bid him to rest until the dawn. They moved the fallen orcs and kept watch silently. Aragorn held his pipe to his lips, but could not light it. He caught his trembling hand and looked up to see Arwen lying across the camp, looking at him. He put his pipe down and smiled, and nodded his head and lay down, seeking sleep, staring up at the leaves and the faint warm glow of the fire upon them, and the stars and dark sky beyond. Sleep would not come.

—

Two days on from the attack, Aragorn led them north through the hills and hollows. He moved at a greater pace, though it was difficult to travel as no footpath had been carved through this land for many thousands of years. But, he knew it well, and they stopped rarely, even at night. His back grew weary, but the elves in his company seemed not troubled at all. They would sit for a few hours at night and eat, while Arwen, Elladan, and Elrohir could manage the waking sleep of elves and be refreshed in moments. Aragorn, however, found little time to sleep, and his mind was foggy, and ever the cold memory of Moria lay upon him since the night attack.

As the afternoon wore on, Aragorn stopped the company. Arwen sat beneath a tree and Elladan with her, but Elrohir and Aragorn wandered ahead and eastward, checking the road. As they walked alone, the elf softly spoke, “I am concerned for you, brother, for this run looks to have taken an unnatural toll upon you.”

Aragorn looked at him and could not hide his truth any longer. He sighed heavily. “I admit that I am weary, but it is not my legs that grow weak.” He paused, then said at length, “A shadow has laid upon my heart for many months, since I was in Moria. I had hoped that my stay in Lothlorien would lift it, but it was not so. I am eager to return home and speak with my mother, and your father.”

“What happened in Moria?” asked Elrohir.

“I went in foolishly, and unprepared,” Aragorn said. Elrohir noticed Aragorn’s hand resting on the ancient blade at his side. “I tested myself; and failed.”

“A harsh assessment, and one that I am not sure is warranted, brother. Though you are young, your strength is greater than many I have known. I do not think you should dismiss the stoutness of your heart so easily.”

“Perhaps, but before, I did not possess the knowledge that I do now, nor the weight that gives me a heavy heart.” His finger scratched at the hilt of Narsil in its sheath, and Elrohir looked at him, his eyes full of pity. But Aragorn ever looked ahead, his eyes searching, and they came upon a great spine of rock that trailed out from the mountains, between hills, forming a ridge that faced the south. Thick bushes covered its foot and haggard and dying vines and limbs grew from its face. Aragorn stopped and knelt down, as did Elrohir beside him. They looked ahead and Aragorn peered through the thickets, but Elrohir’s keen sight detected it first.

“We have found the goblin’s door,” he whispered. Nearly hidden by the thickets and overhanging branches, a cleft in the rock face stood darkly, but they could see the earth at its mouth was trampled and no grass grew there.

“This is undoubtedly where they left the mountain. It is likely a doorway for them, one of many, but I would guess it is one of the few so close to Imladris,” Aragorn said.

“Night will fall soon, and maybe more will venture forth. Should we move on through the night?”

“I believe that would be wise,” said Aragorn. Before he could speak more, they heard the loud, sharp cry of a bird, and another answering. They looked up, searching for it, for the call was the foul crow of Crebain out of Dunland, or Fangorn. Quietly they listened, and heard the beating wings approaching. Aragorn looked to Elrohir, “Seek cover,” he said.

They each lay under a nearby thicket as a thick flock of black birds wheeled overhead and settled in trees near the goblin gate. They squawked eagerly, and Aragorn lay still, watching them. He wished not to move as they sat in the trees ahead, but dusk fell and shadows lengthened. Slowly he began to crawl back out of the thicket and away from the birds and the gate. But Elrohir hissed through his teeth and Aragorn stopped. Ahead, a goblin emerged from the gate and walking in the shadow of the ridge, it looked around, then up at the Crebain noisy in the trees. Behind the goblin, a large black Uruk appeared from the cleft in the ridge.

“Oy, why do those birds squawk,” it growled at the other goblin. They each looked around curiously, but on edge.

“They have seen something. They bring news,” the other goblin said in a voice more shaky and higher than its Uruk companion.

“Snurg has not returned with his party,” the Uruk said. “Perhaps that is the news they bring. He has fallen.”

The other goblin spat at him, “Do not speak such foul lies! Snurg, Chieftain of the Pit, would not fall in such a place.”

Laughing, the Uruk shoved the smaller goblin, “You fool. If Snurg falls, you could claim Chieftain. But you do not see it. You could be no captain!”

Aragorn and Elrohir looked at one another, and as the goblin and Uruk argued, they slipped out of the thicket and knelt behind it, watching the gate, still. Before they could fly, the Uruk grabbed the goblin with a heavy hand and stopped the argument. He turned his flat nose to the air and sniffed. Elrohir silently drew one of his knives and Aragorn looked at him, but Elrohir’s eyes were fixed upon the Uruk, burning brightly.

“What do you smell?” The goblin asked nervously.

“The wind is changed. And I smell danger near at hand,” the Uruk said. “Come, let us look around, if you have the spine for it.” The goblin gnashed its teeth and the pair walked slowly forward, weapons drawn.

Aragorn knew they had no choice now, and he drew his blade as well, and as the Uruk and goblin approached, he nodded to Elrohir. Suddenly, Elrohir sprang from the thicket and at the same time, drew his other knife. He whirled and cut down the goblin with ease as it trembled and stumbled backwards. But the Uruk roared and turned. Aragorn was upon it quickly, its attention now paid to Elrohir. Aragorn drove the broken blade into the Uruk’s back, and it wheeled around, and Aragorn barely ducked beneath the swing of its broad sword. He fell on his back and the Uruk brought its sword up, over its head and stumbled forward, ready to bring it down on Aragorn, but Elrohir moved as swiftly as the wind and cut the Uruk down. It dropped its blade and fell forward next to Aragorn.

Elrohir extended a hand and helped Aragorn to his feet. Aragorn breathed heavily. They looked to the goblin gate, now, but nothing came forth, noise or movement. “We should leave, and move through the night. If we go at speed, we shall reach Imladris maybe by the next night,” Elrohir said. Aragorn nodded and Elrohir lifted Narsil from the ground and handed it to him. Hesitating, Aragorn looked at the blade in his brother’s hand, and took it, returning it to its sheath. Elrohir laid a hand on his shoulder and Aragorn straightened his back and slowed his breathing. “Do not fear,” Elrohir said. “Together we will reach Imladris, and there, the safety of home will restore your strength.”

Aragorn looked at Elrohir and forced a smile. The elf’s eyes were no longer blazing with fire and fury, but the stars were in them, still, and the light was welcoming and gentle. He knew that Elrohir understood and judged him not. He put his own hand upon Elrohir’s shoulder and they returned to Arwen and Elladan. With great speed the four flew north through the night, and the next days, until at last their home lay before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of this specific arc; but, of course, more will come soon.


	8. Upon the Shores of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn, a few years removed from his journey in Khazad-dum, arrives in Pelargir, as he journeys south to Gondor for the first time. At the behest of Elrond, he seeks to learn more of his people and to serve under Ecthelion II, Steward of Gondor. In the port of Pelargir, however, danger finds him more quickly than he expected.

Aragorn stepped onto the wharf in the harbor of Pelargir. The sun was high and the heat of the early southern summer assailed him, though a cooling breeze blew in from the sea. The elves of the Havens had supplied him with new clothes and supplies, and he entered the port of Gondor dressed in a blue tunic and brown trousers, bloused above his boots, which did not look worn and muddy as they did in the North. His hair was tied back behind his head, and he looked of noble, though not regal, birth. A grey hooded cloak draped down from his shoulders, clasped about his breast by a silver star brooch. He was in the long summer of his manhood; his face was bright, but grave, losing the softness of youth.

Many passengers, crew members, and stevedores moved about, making the dock a busy and crowded space. Men pushed past him and he looked upon the city of white stone and wood. Many buildings rose beyond the harbor and beyond them, the White Mountains towered behind a haze and mist. Snow clung still to their highest peaks. The city was a great mix of domed buildings and towers of white stone, and wooden gabled structures with facades of white paint. The city surrounded the confluence of the Sirith and Anduin rivers, and stretched out around the banks with stone walls about it. Outside the walls, small villages and encampments dotted the fields and plains.

It had been a number of years since his mother and Elrond told him the truth of his lineage. He had come to terms with such news, accepting it, though reluctantly. The days of his anguish and youthful need to prove his strength lay behind him. The dark of Moria remained a shadow in the depth of his memory, nothing more. The time to selfishly test himself, to lash out without thought or in search of punishment, had ended. And after years in Imladris and abroad in Eriador and Rhovanion, his mother had summoned him and bid him to seek the South.

He had been long training with Elrohir, learning to fight with the broken blade, shorter than the natural longsword that he traditionally carried, but greater in length than a dagger. Elrohir’s long knives and skill with them were passed to Aragorn, and he learned to fight enemies near and far. Though he carried Narsil at his side, he refrained from using it until the need was great. The broken blade unsheathed was not easily forgotten, and Elrond and Gilraen always urged caution in the presence of those who he could not trust. But few who saw the sword that was broken unsheathed, lived to tell the tale, unless they stood at Aragorn’s side.

While he knew the folds and corners of the northern lands well, little did he know of the South. Gilraen, who knew his fate lay in Gondor, advised him to travel there and learn all he could of its ways and people. He studied the lore of Gondor that Elrond made available in Imladris, but knew that he must walk the streets and forests of the southern land. More than learning the land itself, he sought to explore the hearts of men and learn the nature of his distant southern kin.

Aragorn walked the cobbled city streets and the roar of discordant sounds was ever-present, ringing in his ears. Voices shouted from windows and shops, hammers clanged, and the non-stop clops of hooves on the cobblestones rose to a crescendo in the late morning, while the steady ringing of bells from ships in the harbor provided a rhythmic undertone to the noise. He followed a street up from the docks and to a great broad avenue that ran east to west.

This avenue led to a large market square, filled with people and cloth-canopied merchant stands. He walked through the growing crowd as children ran between the larger folk, laughing and talking excitedly. The market smelled of fresh fruits and earthy vegetables; the smell of fresh bread floated on the wind and there were stands of many-colored flowers. Aragorn smiled and felt his heart rising, for he had seldom seen such a pleasant and warm environment outside Imladris.

Turning out of the square, Aragorn found a dim, grimy lane where the clear ringing of hammers bounced around sharply and the interconnected buildings sent wisps of smoke from chimneys. He stepped into one of the open doorways into a darkened room where a counter stood across the length of the back of the room and many shields and coats of mail hung on either wall. A barrel-chested man with a heavy beard on his face and neck and great broad shoulders came in from the workshop in the back of the room, wiping his hand on his apron.

“‘Ello there, sir. What may I do for you?”

Aragorn wandered the small room of the shop, looking at swords and other weapons on stands against the wall, and at the armor hanging above. He came to the desk, “I am seeking a new cuirass, though, not plate,” he said.

“Ah, you may look at that piece there,” the man said, pointing across the room to the wall.

Aragorn’s eye was indeed drawn to a hardened leather cuirass on a wooden stand. Across the breast was a great eagle, wings spread from left to right, its talons bared on unseen prey below. Above the eagle were seven stars that recalled the great sigil of Gondor. Aragorn lifted it off the stand and it felt light, but sturdy. The shopkeeper came around the desk through a doorway with a heavy curtain and took the cuirass from Aragorn and held it open. They set the piece across Aragorn’s shoulders and the man buckled it at the sides and Aragorn adjusted his shoulders and ran his hands down the chest.

“That is a fine fit!” The man said proudly.

“Indeed it is,” Aragorn said, looking down at the eagle across his chest. “This shall do nicely. Perhaps I could also take that fair set of bracers over there, as well?” Aragorn nodded toward them on a shelf on the opposite wall.

“Of course, of course,” the large man moved quickly and picked the bracers off the shelf and helped Aragorn affix them to his arms.

The man returned across the desk and the two completed their business. “By chance, is there a fair tavern or inn nearby?” Aragorn asked.

“Aye,” the keeper responded. “This part of town, try the Leaping Fish for a meal.” The man rubbed his bearded chin, “And I’d say if you stay for a while, the Blue Swan is fair,” he put his hand to the side of his mouth and lowered his voice, “though I don’t hear good things ‘bout the cooking.”

Aragorn smiled warmly, “Thank you, my friend! With such protections as these, the foes of Gondor will strike at me in vain.”

The words pleased the shopkeeper greatly and he nodded, “Gondor has been strengthened today, with the arrival of, uh—” and the man realized at last he did not know Aragorn’s name.

Aragorn clasped the cloak around his shoulders with the star brooch and smiled, “I am called Thorongil.”

—

It was late in the morning and Aragorn sat alone at a table in the corner of a tavern. A plate sat in front of him with only bread crumbs remaining, and Aragorn leaned back in his chair, smoking his pipe. He took in the aroma of smoked meats, fish, ale, and pipe weed. A great stone fireplace stood unused in the center of the room, colored black from soot and smoke. The room was dim and noisy as many patrons sat at tables spread all around the fireplace.

He passed two days’ time in Pelargir, the warmth of the southern summer sun, and the fresh air and smell of the sea captured him, filling him with an overwhelming calm that seemed to make him slow and relaxed. He would travel up river to Minas Tirith, but was in no hurry to seek a barge. Instead he wandered through the streets and markets by day, and sat quietly in the corners of the tavern at night. He overheard many conversations, though, of little importance. He merely listened to the folk of Gondor carry on with their daily routines, whether sweeping streets or selling fresh fruits. He awoke every morning to the distant clanging of ships bells, and fell asleep at night to the soft hum of voices downstairs in the common room of the Blue Swan Inn.

His peaceful reverie was cut short as a patron fell over with his chair and the usual conversations paused briefly while everyone in the tavern looked over toward the door. Three men had noisily entered, annoyed at the presence of others, they simply pushed by a table, knocking a timid man over, who just sat on the floor as his companions knelt beside him and his spilled drink, looking up at the men who walked by. Aragorn did not move, but held his pipe in front of his face, no longer drawing from it. After the moment passed, everyone returned to their conversations, though anticipation hung in the air like thick smoke, as if the patrons could sense trouble.

One of the men led the other two, and his face was harsh and scarred, a scraggly beard beneath his chin; his bulging muscles exposed as he wore simply a leather vest and no shirt underneath. His arms were covered in hasty tattoos and markings. The other two wore similar clothing, with baggy pants and faces that looked scorched by the sun. Their snears gave themselves away as folk the patrons did not wish to argue with, and two of them went to the bar and began grumbling at the tender who gave them ale without demanding payment. The man in front, however, went to a table to Aragorn’s right, with only another table of two patrons between.

He stopped and crossed his thick arms over his chest and three men looked up at him. Two were no different than most of the other patrons, but one was fair, though he tried to conceal it. His hair was washed and straight, and pulled back. He wore a brown cloak, but it could hardly obscure the fine clothing beneath. Suddenly, Aragorn focused on them, and his ears, attuned to such sounds as animals in far off trees, began to listen to their conversation.

“Lord Alcaron, is it?” the thug said, though Aragorn did not need to strain much to hear his harsh voice. One of the men with the fair Lord Alcaron stood, and with his hand on the hilt of a sword, he tried to intimidate the thug, but Aragorn could see little conviction in his face. The man carried a long sword at this side, but Aragorn knew a broad blade would only hinder him in such a space, while the thug’s knife could easily find its mark.

“Perhaps you should be on your way,” the man said to the thug, but the thug simply looked over to him without care and smiled, a tooth missing on the upper row. “Did you not hear?”

But the thug heard him clearly, and instead of speaking venom in return, he simply threw his head forward and cracked the man across the bridge of his nose. Blood then covered the thug’s forehead and the man collapsed back into his chair, hands to his face, screaming. The lord jumped back at the quick and brutish movement, but the second man at the table with him stood as quickly as he could and began to draw his sword. The thug, however, was quicker, and with a lunge, produced and stabbed a knife into the man’s shoulder. It was then that the other two thugs came from the bar toward them.

Patrons began to dodge away from the commotion, but Aragorn stayed seated. Despite the knife in his shoulder, the second man jumped to his feet and tackled the lead thug to the floor. The man with the broken nose attempted to stand and fight, but the other two thugs subdued him and began beating on his chest and stomach. Lord Alcaron left his chair and backed away in panic, searching the tavern with his dark eyes.

The second man with Alcaron could not fight well with one arm, and the thug overpowered him on the floor, and pulling the knife from the man’s shoulders, plunged it into his chest until he no longer moved. Standing and turning, the thug saw Alcaron against the wall and came toward him with the bloody blade, but then Aragorn decided to move, too. With great speed he lunged for the thug and while the long swords of the men of Gondor could scarcely be wielded in a crowd, Aragorn slipped the broken blade from its sheath and drove it into the thug’s ribs. The thug gave out a last gasp and cry, but he froze and dropped to the floor. Alcaron looked at Aragorn in shock.

“It appears you have found some sort of local trouble, my lord,” Aragorn said to him. “Flee, into the street, I shall take care of these men, here.”  
Alcaron stared blankly at Aragorn for a moment, but with a strong hand, Aragorn gripped the lord’s shoulder and pushed him to get him moving. Finally he turned his attention to the other two thugs, who dropped Alcaron’s battered mate and drew crude knives of their own to face Aragorn. He smiled, and they ran at him. A quick step to the side, a thrust, and a quick duck, followed by a final cut, put the thugs on the floor with their leader. As Aragorn looked to the front door, he noticed that Alcaron had not moved far, but simply watched the stranger dispatch his foes with ease.

While Alcaron’s eyes were on Aragorn, a door to the back of the tavern had opened, as Aragorn noticed a quick ray of light shine across the floor and tables. He looked back, noticing a hooded man with a crossbow standing in the doorway. Aragorn leapt and threw his body into Alcaron. They crashed together at the same time as a bolt struck Aragorn in the back. He stood and dragged Alcaron to his feet as well. The pain in his back came to him quickly, but reaching back and beneath the cuirass he could feel the point of the small bolt had barely pierced his skin. He could not pull the bolt out of the armor without taking it off, so he left it there.

In the meantime, the hooded man had entered the tavern and readied another bolt in his crossbow. Aragorn pushed Alcaron forward and shoved him through the patrons and tables, flipping a table behind him as men screamed and fell out of their way. He and Alcaron burst through the front door into the city street. It was a grimy lane, and Aragorn looked to his left and right as people going about their business noticed him, Alcaron, and the commotion within the Leaping Fish.

Aragorn picked Alcaron off the street and noticed down the lane, a fourth thug, unmistakably part of the group that entered the tavern, moving toward them. At the same moment, another crossbow bolt whistled by, but missed. Aragorn ducked instinctively and began pushing Alcaron down the street. People moved out of their way, and Aragorn had to push several aside and avoid carts and horses along the lane. Alcaron stumbled along with him, saying little. At last, he saw a door to his right and with a strong shoulder, he burst through it, and pulled Alcaron inside.

Aragorn shut the door behind them, though it hung awkwardly from the force of their entry. They were inside a storehouse, lit by lanterns on the wall, with wooden crates spread around and wooden beams leaning against the wall. The lanterns bathed the room and stone walls in orange light. Alcaron’s heavy breathing filled the room and he sat on a crate as Aragorn turned from the door and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I...think not,” Alcaron said, his hands feeling his head and then quickly searching inside his cloak until they paused on whatever he had been looking for. Aragorn watched him curiously.

“Why did those thugs attack you?” Aragorn sat on a crate as well, catching his breath. The wound on his back was not severe, but still burned.

“I do not know you, sir,” Alcaron snapped.

“No, you do not,” Aragorn admitted. “If you wish to continue not knowing me, I shall be on my way; though, I have saved your life, now, and should we part, I am more confident in my leaving safely, than yourself.”

Alcaron looked at Aragorn and his eyes narrowed. The barb landed, but it did not fully sway the lord, who remained cautious. He looked Aragorn up and down, eyeing the eagle on his armor as Aragorn turned his body, wincing, and tried to pull the bolt from his cuirass. Alcaron at last sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees.

“Forgive me. You did save my life, and I know you had no duty to do so. I am Lord Alcaron, and I was attacked by those thugs, likely in league with traitors to Gondor.”

Aragorn stopped and looked at Alcaron, “Traitors, you say?”

“Indeed, there are forces at work within Gondor that would see her fall. I left Minas Tirith to meet with men whom I trust, and now, I was set to hand a message off to be carried to the defenders at Cair Andros.”

“Cair Andros? The island fortress?” Aragorn asked.

“I learned of an attack that would be carried out upon it. As you can see, though I now have no one to carry the message,” Alcaron looked at Aragorn sideways. “What is your name?”

“I am called Thorongil,” Aragorn said. The name now felt right and he no longer showed any reservations in repeating it. “I arrived here at the behest of Elrond of Rivendell. He wished that I come to serve Gondor, and I think now the Elven lord’s sight is keen indeed. By chance I have come upon you, and a mission to serve this land.”

Alcaron looked astonished that Aragorn would be in the confidence of such a figure as Elrond. Though he had not met Elrond, or been to Rivendell before, Alcaron knew his name, and his stature in Middle-earth. His respect for Aragorn seemed to grow, as did his confidence.

“If you have the favor of Elrond, then you have mine as well,” he said. “Would you carry the message to Cair Andros? I fear time has run short, though you may yet reach it before the attack is launched.”

Before Aragorn could answer, he held up his hand in a bid to quiet Alcaron. His ears picked up a strange quiet on the lane, but still he heard soft footsteps that crept nearby. Though the footfalls may have evaded the notice of a lord of Gondor, or those in his service, a ranger such as Aragorn could not mistake the boots on the stone, which stopped suddenly. With his hand held up to quiet Alcaron, Aragorn glanced at it, and noticed blood on his fingers, smeared and now dried. He quickly looked to the door and realized his folly.

He stood quickly and quietly, moved across the storeroom and put his back to the wall. A shadow came across the doorway, blocking the light that shone between the door and the stone floor. With a great crash a boot kicked the door, finally off its hinges. It fell, to the attacker’s surprise, and the room was bathed in new light. Alcaron shielded his eyes with his arms, still sitting upon the crate across the room. The hooded figure in the door stepped forward and raised his crossbow.

Before the assassin could fire, Aragorn grabbed his arm and threw a heavy fist into the mysterious figure’s head. The assassin dropped the crossbow and stumbled. Aragorn swiftly drew his broken blade and still tightly clutching the assassin’s arm, with his left hand, he brought the blade across and then down again in swift strokes. The figure fell to the floor, blood flowing from beneath him.

Alcaron stood and lifted the hood as Aragorn sheathed the sword again. “A man from Umbar,” Alcaron noted. “It appears Gondor’s old enemies are circling.” He sighed and stood. “Thorongil, you must hurry.”

The lord pulled a scroll with a red wax seal from inside his cloak and handed it to Aragorn. The wax seal was stamped with a tree, the official sigil of Gondor. Aragorn stuff it safely into his shirt, beneath the cuirass.

“Please, this message must reach Cair Andros. The lord there is Tiror, defender of the island. He will see you, if you present this scroll to those who guard the gates,” Alcaron said.

“Do not fear, I will reach Cair Andros ere it falls,” Aragorn said.

“Thank you, my friend,” Alcaron said.

“You should stay here for a short while. City guards I am sure shall be looking for our trail. There are many villains that lie behind us.” Aragorn looked out the door at the lane and found that most traffic was back to normal, and common people moved about unawares of the previous disturbance.

“I shall stay, the guards will know me. Hurry, Thorongil!” Alcaron urged.

Aragorn nodded once more and ran out the doorway and down the lane. Alcaron did not watch him go, but rather he bent low over the assassin’s body, studying the lightless face and reaching beneath his robes.


	9. The Guardians of Ithilien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In his race to get to Cair Andros before the enemy assault, Aragorn travels into Ithilien. He soon meets a company of rangers, who safeguard the eastern shores of Anduin against enemies from East and South. Their leader, Celador, hears Aragorn's message, and the company resolves to travel to Cair Andros together, to reinforce its defense.

Aragorn rode through two nights and more until he reached the Rammas Echor, a great stone wall, beyond which Aragorn gazed in amazement at the towering, white city of Minas Tirith. At Harlond, guards on the outer gates barked at him, breaking him from his wide-eyed stare at the city only a few miles beyond, but which climbed up a mountain peak. A silver spire shone in the sun high above. At the guards’ orders, Aragorn handed them the Scroll of Alcaron, and they saw the seal upon it and no longer questioned him suspiciously. In fact, their mood shifted quickly, and they encouraged Aragorn to enter Harlond and seek the stables within the walls.

In the stables, Aragorn was given another steed, and with soft words he bid farewell to the horse that carried him so far already across the lush lands of Lossarnach. Aragorn climbed upon a fresh horse and the stable hands and soldiers had gathered about to watch him, blue cloak sailing behind him as he wheeled the mount and quickly left Harlond. He rode further along the Rammas Echor, passing the Causeway Forts and hailing the guards there, who bid him enter Osgiliath. He crossed the great stone bridge amid the ruined city, and followed the road through and around fallen stones and collapsed, once-great buildings.

He turned north along the Ithilien Road and continued following it, as he did not know the land well enough to go through the surrounding forests of Lebethron and Culumalda, which were in yellow full-bloom. The pleasant scent of flowers and the bright yellow trees around the road as the evening approached, lulled him to slow his horse to a trot. He looked around at the strange land, though it did somewhat resemble the wild lands he knew in the north. The trees were different, and there were many flowers that he had never seen before. 

As they trotted along, suddenly Aragorn’s horse began to bob its head and snort, stepping sideways. Aragorn held the reins and tried to steady the mount, but it would not do. The horse came to a stop and even backed away, as Aragorn could not hold it steady. He knew the steed sensed danger, and Aragorn listened closely and heard the faint sound of clinking armor, heavy footsteps, and voices in a strange tongue. He dismounted, and holding the reins in one hand, he tried to calm the steed and lead it off the road, but it would not budge. At last, Aragorn dashed off the road and into the bush, ducking down low to the ground, one hand on the hilt of his blade. As he watched, a small company of soldiers appeared around a bend in the road.

They wore clothing that clearly set them apart from the men of Gondor. Their black trousers were covered by cloth hanging from their belted waists. They wore tunics of red, brown, and their head and faces were covered by black cloth. Beneath the layered fabrics, Aragorn could see coats of mail and in some cases strange plates, but they looked to mostly be lightly armored, with curved swords and daggers at their waists. Some carried bows in their hands, or on their backs, and arrows with red fletching bunched in quivers on their legs. They spoke to one another and noticed Aragorn’s steed, which stamped its foot as they approached.

Surrounding the horse, one of the men snatched the reins in his hand and pulled as the horse raised its head and pulled back sharply, stepping side to side in attempt to jerk free. At least it reared up on its hind quarters, but the strange man would not let go and the steed brought its front feet down again, and the man rushed forward and gripped its bridle. The others began searching through Aragorn’s saddlebags, finding little of interest, for they tossed some food items to the ground, or inspected pieces of cloth. Suddenly, Aragorn heard a call, like a bird that was strange to him. The men who surrounded his steed looked around and pointed into the trees. It seemed as if one gave orders to three others, who slowly walked off the road, blades in hand, into the trees on the opposite side of the road from Aragorn. Two remained with the horse.

Another call came, this time Aragorn recognized it as a clear whistle, but the others seemed to still regard it as a native bird of the area. At last a great crack filled the forest and the men screamed and there was a rustle of leaves and the snapping of branches. Heavy thuds and further screaming echoed in the trees as one of the men with Aragorn’s horse barked some order at his companion, drew his blade, and went to follow the noise. The last soldier stood holding the reins, still. Aragorn thought whether he could then emerge from the trees and catch the soldier unawares, if the horse would conceal his approach and not spook. But, before he could draw his blade and take a step, he heard a light football behind him, and his heart raced as a sharp point touched his back.

Aragorn dared not turn, but took his hand off the hilt of his sword and held both hands aloft beside his head. Whoever held the point to him did not speak, nor move. Aragorn continued watching the road and through the trees, he could see no movement on the other side. With a high whistle, an arrow emerged from the trees and struck the last soldier in the chest. Another followed and the soldier collapsed on the ground, the horse shook and reared up in alarm, and backed away from its fallen captor. Then, Aragorn saw multiple figures move at once, as if the forest itself came to life and the trees walked toward him. But, as they reached the road, he saw that they were indeed men, clad in green, brown, and grey.

“Move,” the man behind him finally spoke. Aragorn stood and walked toward the road as instructed, his hands still raised. There he found himself surrounded by another company of men, but clad in green hoods and cloaks, carrying bows, searching the dead man on the ground. Another soothed the spooked horse, and Aragorn looked around but could not discern their leader, for they all wore a brown or green cloth over their faces, that covered up to their eyes. Aragorn knew them to be rangers, but of a different breed than his kin up north.

“Tellagor, who is this man?” One of the rangers asked, stepping away from the body of the fallen soldier. Aragorn saw that this ranger had dropped the covering from his face. He was roughly-shaven, and his brown hair reached out beneath his green hood. He wore a green jacket, lined with brown leather, and leather bracers. A quiver of arrows rattled at his side and his curved bow was on his back. His clothing appeared handmade, but his weapons looked expertly crafted in an armory of Gondor.

“I found him stooping in the woods across the road, Celador,” the one called Tellagor said.

Celador stood face to face with Aragorn, and inspected him. “What is your name? You do not look to be a Southron,” Celador asked.

Aragorn relaxed slightly and lowered his arms slowly, “No, I am not. On the contrary I come from the North. Thorongil is my name,” he said with no hesitation. “I am on errand for a Lord Alcaron, of Minas Tirith.”

Celador narrowed his eyes and looked deeply into Aragorn’s own. A few of the other rangers around them looked at one another, whispering. “Alcaron, you say? And what errand is this?”

“I carry a message for Tiror, defender of Cair Andros,” Aragorn said boldly.

The rangers began speaking among one another, the surprise clear in their voices. They wondered aloud who this Thorongil was to carry such a message for a lord of Minas Tirith, but who did not hail from this land himself. Aragorn looked around at them as some shot accusatory glances at him, while others seemed rather annoyed by the interrogation. He glanced over his shoulder to look at the man behind him, who had golden hair beneath a brown hood, his face covered in a brown cloth. Aragorn did not speak, and Tellagor did not speak either, but he held his bow, an arrow knocked on the string, down in front of him.

“Let me see this message,” Celador demanded, holding out his hand.

“I have told you who I am, but you have told me nothing. I came upon this errand suddenly, at the urging of fate it seemed, and I know few in this land, and whom they serve remains mysterious to me,” Aragorn said.

The rangers around him became on edge and he could feel Tellagor’s eyes looking through him, hearing the tightening of the bowstring at his back. Celador’s face was stern, but mostly annoyed. “You say you came upon this errand by chance. But say you came upon Alcaron purposefully and drove your blade through him, taking this message by force. I know who each man here serves, save you, Thorongil. It shall be enough for you to know that you stand among the Guardians of Ithilien, and that we have found you, hiding in the trees, while a company of Southrons stood by your horse. That is enough for me to suspect what master you serve. And that I speak to you now, and not have Tellagor leave you among these fallen enemies, shall be enough for you to follow any orders that I have given.”

Aragorn looked around at the sharp, dark eyes of the rangers surrounding him. He knew that he had erred, for Celador spoke clearly and with the conviction of any man rightly defending his homeland. Aragorn nodded and produced the scroll from his cuirass, handing it to Celador. The ranger did not open it, but closely inspected the seal and tapped the paper in his gloved hand.

“I deem your errand, true, Thorongil,” he said, giving Aragorn the scroll. “Forgive me and my company, for we protect Ithilien from more than orcs. Many would pass through on some errand that may weaken Gondor, and those who serve other masters do not always look as they do,” he nodded to the dead Southron on the road.

“No offense has been taken, Lord Celador,” Aragorn bowed his head. “I, too, would take such care when enemies are about. But, now, I fear we may be weakening Gondor by the moment, if I may, though you do so unknowingly.”

“What do you mean?” Celador asked.

“Before I left Pelargir, Alcaron told me that he learned of an attack upon Cair Andros, and that I must deliver this message to Tiror with all speed. I fear what this delay might mean for the success of my mission,” Aragorn said.

Celador looked suddenly troubled and rubbed his bearded chin; he looked around at his companions, who all had turned to him to see his reaction. “Aye, unknowingly have I delayed you; but, we might make up for such delay by taking you upon safer paths to the fortress. We have sought Southrons and their forces through Northern Ithilien for days, though never in great numbers. It appears now we have learned why their parties are this far north. Come, Thorongil! You shall accompany us, though you shall not wear such garments, for your blue cloak will stand out too much among the wood.”

Aragorn smiled and removed his blue cloak. From a backpack, one of the rangers brought to him a brown coat, which he put his arms through and fastened around his neck with his star brooch that glimmered in the gathering dusk. The rangers set his horse off south again, and it ran swiftly as it knew the way back to Harlond.

But Celador and his rangers turned the opposite way and led Aragorn north. They passed off the road and into the trees, and they walked silently. Many yards off the road, Aragorn saw Celador and the rangers in front of him step around a large opening in the ground, freshly disturbed. As he walked by, he saw a shallow hole and inside, the bodies of three Southron soldiers, bloodied and pierced by sharpened wood stakes. There were arrows in the bodies, and they lay draped over the trap like beasts slain in the hunt. Aragorn paused there to look upon the rangers’ work, but a hand gripped his shoulder.

“Such devices we have used for ages to protect this land,” said Celador, standing beside Aragorn. “We make it seem as if the land itself protects Gondor. But, fear not, stay in our line, and you shall not meet the same end.” Celador and the other rangers laughed as they walked by Aragorn, who took one last look at the Southrons lying dead upon the rangers’ spikes, and continued walking with the company.

—

The company walked along pathways through the wood that few could see. Even with his long experience, it took Aragorn nearly a day to clearly see the rangers’ trails as they followed them. When they met, Celador and his company saw Aragorn merely as a lord, perhaps from some northern city who sought glory for himself in Gondor. The first day they treated him as a burden, such as an extra pack to carry among them. But as he walked swiftly beside them and his long legs and feet carried him softly and as quietly as their own, the rangers soon realized that there was more to Thorongil than they originally expected. 

The rangers’ hidden paths carried them far north, and safely into a wide secluded glade. The turf was thick and green, with fragrant Eglantine and yellow and white Asphodel spread among the grass. Celador and the rangers sat among large rocks that dotted the glade as a handful of rangers went about to keep watch. Aragorn came and knelt beside Celador, who drank from his waterskin and watched across the glade as if looking for a messenger.

“How much further to Cair Andros?" Aragorn asked in a quiet voice.

Celador scanned the treeline surrounding the glade, took a drink and closed up his waterskin. "Less than a day. But we must wait here for a little while."

"For what purpose? We are all able, your men do not look weary," Aragorn said.

"We are few, and along the way I have sent messengers to more of our people in the wood. I am not the only captain in Ithilien. More men will join us, and we shall reinforce Cair Andros, if indeed an attack comes as you say," Celador said.

Aragorn could sense a hint of doubt in Celador's voice. Perhaps the ranger captain still did not believe him. For many of his years, Aragorn followed his brothers, Elladan and Elrohir while they ranged, and seldom did he take the lead. He thought of Celador now as one of the twins, not hesitant, but vigilant, and taking care to protect those under his charge. He could not blame Celador, for if he sought to increase his numbers in case Aragorn led them astray, it would be a wise course of action. But, as Aragorn pondered the nature of Celador's decision, he heard the same call that presaged the attack on the Southrons.

Celador waved to Aragorn and he put his back to a large boulder. Aragorn crawled beside him and laid his body flat on the turf. He put his ear to the ground and heard footsteps approaching, and the earth told him of approaching men, though not rangers, for the footfalls were heavy and unconcerned about the path that they walked. Raising his head, Aragorn could no longer see any of the rangers in Celador’s company, but he did see men emerge from the trees. They were clad in the same raiments and clothes as the Southrons he had seen on the road.

The strange tongues of the Southrons began to echo in the glade and Aragorn watched them with his eyes just above the grass. With a slight turn of his head, he saw that Celador had silently moved around the boulder and Aragorn could see only the ranger’s arm, his bow in-hand. Another call from unseen rangers came across the glade and the Southrons stopped, their leader halting them as if he recognized the sound. But, their fate was already sealed.

A whistle from the trees, then another, and another, as arrows found their marks on the Southrons. Two dropped quickly, and four others began to scramble, turning their backs to one another to look all around them. They fled, running toward Aragorn and Celador. As they approached, Celador leaned out from the boulder and another Southron fell with the twang of Celador’s bowstring. Aragorn leapt to his feet, drew his blade and quickly met another, whose own curved blade was in hand. They crashed together and the Southron grunted as he swung wildly and Aragorn parried each blow. Aragorn grabbed the soldier by the neck, pulling him closer, but the soldier gripped his other arm, preventing him from dealing a blow.

Aragorn used his weight and fell back, pulling the Southron with him, and as they fell, Aragorn flipped the soldier over him, throwing him, the Southron’s body rolling in the grass. They became untangled and Aragorn quickly found Narsil in the turf, picked it up, and realized he held the Southron’s black cloth in his other hand. He quickly looked up and saw the soldier slowly climbing to his feet. Aragorn paused. The Southron looked back at Aragorn with awe and fear. He was a young man, his olive skin soft, with barely a mark or shadow. His eyes were bright, and fearful.

Suddenly, with a thud, the Southron trembled and Aragorn flinched at the feeling of an arrow flying near to his face. He saw the arrow pierce the young man’s chest; then, another. The Southron’s eyes rolled back and his body fell to the grass. Aragorn turned as Tellagor brushed past him.

“You’re welcome,” the ranger said. He went to the body and knelt over it, pulling the arrows from it, and wiping their points on the grass.

Aragorn came beside him, but did not speak. Tellagor looked at him, then simply stood and walked away. Aragorn stared into the young face, which slowly lost its light. The young man’s eyes were still open, and Aragorn softly closed them.

“Thorongil,” Celador called from behind. “We must go, now. Our companions have come.”

Aragorn turned from the young man in the grass and stood to see the glade filled with nearly forty rangers. They all greeted one another as old friends would, but they still dispersed into their own groups of five or ten. It was clear to Aragorn that the rangers all knew one another, but formed more intimate bonds with the few men with whom they roamed Ithilien. Celador carried much respect among all of them, and though he told Aragorn he was not the only captain in Ithilien, all others seemed to defer to him. Aragorn walked toward the larger group, sheathing his broken sword as Celador spoke. Few rangers paid the newcomer any mind.

“So we march to Cair Andros. If Alcaron’s message is true, then we may arrive to find it besieged already,” Celador said to the gathering of rangers.

In a moment that Aragorn could not have expected, the ranger Tellagor, who had been so threatening to him, appeared to soften and put a hand on Celador’s shoulder as if reassuring him. “We will reach Cair Andros swiftly.” Celador nodded and smiled.

“Let’s move!” he roared to the group.

They all spoke softly amongst themselves and gathered their things. Celador was speaking quietly with Tellagor, nodding. Tellagor then walked away and Celador turned to Aragorn. “I trust you are more than a messenger, Thorongil.”

“That I am,” Aragorn said defiantly.

“Good. For if we reached besieged Cair Andros, a moment’s pause at the enemy will leave us one man short,” Celador said disapprovingly.

Aragorn bowed his head, “Forgive me. I do not know what came over me.”

Celador sighed and his shoulders dropped. He nodded his head and rubbed his bearded face. “Forgive me if I am harsh. Tiror is close to me, and I am simply grieved at the thought of reaching the fortress too late. Come! You shall walk with me at the vanguard.”

The rangers moved swiftly now, flying from the glade through the woods. Celador and Aragorn traveled at the van, as other groups of rangers ran with them, spread out to their left and right. Celador did not speak, and Aragorn heard little of the rangers around him. It seemed they all flew with urgency, as need drove them on to Cair Andros. They pushed through the night, and the wind was in the trees out of the east, and Aragorn could begin to smell fire and upon the air. While the wind blew among the trees, the rangers moved like the wind along pathways and over rough ground without faltering.

The moon rose high that evening and the woods were not as thick as the company ran north. Aragorn heard the rushing of water away to their left, and the smell of wet stone drifted on the wind. They had come near to Anduin, finally turning westward. A ranger called out in a soft whistle and Celador slowed the company to a stop. Two rangers emerged from the shadowed trees ahead and came to speak to Celador. Aragorn did not linger near, but could see Celador’s face become weary and he rubbed his beard in thought. At least he put a hand to both rangers’ shoulders and they flew from him, back through the trees and shadows ahead. Celador came over to Aragorn and other rangers gathered near.

“Scouts have reported that forces move on Cair Andros,” Celador said, with worry clear in his voice. The other rangers looked at one another, and though they appeared troubled, their faces turned steely and quiet. “We are less than two leagues from the crossing. The enemy comes from the northeast. We may arrive ere they attack,” Celador said. “Fly!”

He waved his arm and the rangers sprang forth once more through the night. Aragorn’s long legs kept up with Celador, who though shorter, knew the lands far better and his footfalls were surer than Aragorn’s own. Near the dawn, they emerged from the trees on a gently sloping bank of the Anduin. There, they met a handful of rangers who had prepared small boats for the company. Carved of fair Lebethron, they were large enough to hold five men, and the rangers had ten laid up on the bank. The men began breaking into groups to board the boats and they emerged from the trees with more provisions than Aragorn had seen them carry. He gathered this was a common secret crossing for the rangers, as the waters of Anduin were wide and rough around Cair Andros, so that no army could cross, save for taking the fortress itself.

As Aragorn upon the bank, watching Celador direct his rangers, Aragorn looked to the northeast and in the treeline he saw a dark shadow. It moved swiftly from one tree to another. He walked that way, among the rangers so as to not draw suspicion, and trained his ear upon the forest. He heard the footsteps of the shadowed figure halt. Standing just outside a group of rangers at the last boat in the line, Aragorn knelt and looked into the wood, seeing clearly at last a figure there. He knew not the calls of the rangers, but he let out a sharp, clear-ringing whistle, which turned every head on the bank.

Aragorn pointed and shouted, “A watcher in the woods!” But, he did not move his eyes from the dark figure, which suddenly stood and began to run in a panic.

At least six rangers sprang into the trees after him, and after a few moments, they returned. Two of them dragged the body of a man cloaked in dark leather and cloth, arrows in his back. Celador ran over to them and looked upon the scout. “The enemy is here and they scout the banks for any crossing point,” he said.

“Can they cross here, without boats?” Aragorn asked.

“No, the river is too deep to ford on foot at any place but the approaches to Cair Andros,” Celador said. “Let us go! We cross, and approach Cair Andros by the southwest.”

With Celador’s orders, the rangers launched the small boats into the river and Aragorn leapt into Celador’s boat, being the last to push it off the sandy bank. He rowed with the others and they swiftly crossed, the current carrying them southward only a short way where the river bent and the bank was small, but made of small rocks and sand, with only a few feet before it rose sharply in mud and tree roots, to the forest floor on the western side. The rangers tossed ropes and hooks, and they skillfully found trees and root to moor their boats. Though the boat rocked, Aragorn managed to leap from it onto the muddy bank and climb the small rise with Celador offering a hand.

The rangers gathered their things once more, and teams of three pulled the boats up the embankment and onto the ground, quickly covering them with twigs, branches, and netting to camouflage them at the base of trees along the bank. Celador ordered a few men to stay behind to watch the boats and the river, while the company raced north again, to the island fortress. High above the trees, and across the river, a great island, shaped like a ship, stood in the middle of the river. A great white stone tower rose on the southern end, surrounded by high walls. And across the river to the east, mingled with the rising sun, a smoke and flame approached the borders of Gondor.


	10. The Eagle of Cair Andros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The siege of Cair Andros begins with a host of orcs and southrons crossing the river to attack the island on many fronts. Aragorn, Celador, and his rangers defend the beaches, where siege rafts attempt to land. The battle rages for a night, and Aragorn soon proves his valor to the Men of Gondor.

The island of Cair Andros split the waters of Anduin in two. The long, thin island’s northern banks were steep and rocky, with high cliffs, breaking through the currents like a ship forever sailing upriver. The rocks grew more sparse and interrupted a grass-covered hilly land that stood along the center of the island. Upon this rocky plain stood a great fortress of white stone, capped with red roofs. A wall surrounded a Citadel of many towers. The faces of the stone towers glistened in the morning light. To the south, the land sloped downwards and there were roads carved into the hillside, which ended into a wide plain of short grass. From there, the southern point of the island was a sandy bank, and there the rangers’ boats pulled ashore.

The boats pulled into a wooden quay and soldiers greeted the rangers happily. A small stone guard tower stood beside the quay as the only fortifications on the low end of the island. The rangers gathered their supplies and Aragorn stood gazing up the hill at the Citadel towers. Celador came up beside Aragorn, a pack slung over his shoulder, and he looked up the hill as well and smiled.

“It looks better from out here,” he said. Aragorn looked at him, puzzled. Celador simply smiled at him and nodded his head to the road as they followed the troop of rangers up the hill.

The road met another on the rocky plain and there Aragorn saw away to his right the Approach, a great stone causeway that crossed the river. On the near end of the causeway a stone tower stood and an archway over the road held a great wood and iron gate. The causeway marked the only place the enemy could cross without the use of boats or rafts. They walked up the hill to the citadel where the gate stood open and they passed through into a courtyard of stone.

Aragorn saw what Celador meant when they stood at the quay. Inside the great wall, the fortress was sparsely populated, and broken stone lay about as buildings and storehouses were laid open from past sieges. The work had been done in places to patch the holes or support the remaining stone with wood beams. Soldiers approached them and greeted the rangers. Aragorn saw a tight group of soldiers clad in silver plate approaching down a street to the left. The rangers and soldiers parted as the group came up to Celador and Aragorn. At the front of them stood a tall man with a dark grey coat over mail, a white tree emblazoned upon his chest. His shoulders and arms were covered in silver plate and his grey eyes were sharp. He smiled warmly as he approached.

“Celador!” He called, and the two embraced. The man held Celador’s shoulders and looked upon his face for a moment, a broad smile across both their faces.

“Tiror, I am glad to see you,” Celador said.

“As am I! Though, under better days, I wish,” Tiror, the lord of Cair Andros, said.

“I have brought forty rangers for your defense. And news of attack, though, by the smell of the air, the fires of the enemy are near already,” Celador said.  
Tiror looked suddenly grave, “Indeed. I have pulled all men across the river, for a host has come from Cirith Gorgor. Men at Henneth Annun fled before them, and arrived here just two days ago, reporting on the host’s coming. I have since started preparing for our defense.”

Celador looked at Aragorn and said, “This is Thorongil. He came from Pelargir with a message from Lord Alcaron, warning of the attack. We had hoped to reach you before the attack, at the least.” Aragorn stepped forward and bowed to Tiror.

“Welcome, Thorongil,” Tiror said, nodding his head. “Though your errand is ended, you shall remain in Celador’s company for the defense.”

“I will do my part,” Aragorn said confidently.

“Any man is welcome who can carry a sword or shield,” Tiror said, grimly. “We number little more than two thousand here. Word of the host’s numbers is unclear, but some from Henneth Annun supposed they outnumbered us three-to-one.”

Celador rubbed his face worriedly, “At least we hold the Approach, and the island will not be easily taken, no matter the enemy’s strength.”

“That may prove true, and your presence here has brought renewed hope,” Tiror said, smiling. He put his arm around Celador and they walked up the hill.

Aragorn looked around and followed after them as Tiror’s guards did the same. The rangers and soldiers had dispersed into their own tasks and places of rest. A quiet doom hung over the Citadel, and Aragorn could sense the men’s grim mood, though it was mixed with the distracting pleasure of greeting friends and brothers. The sun rose high over the Citadel and Aragorn followed Tiror and Celador up to the lord’s chamber.

—

They assembled a council within a chamber with a large table in the center and a fireplace that sat empty and cold to the right. The daylight peered in through high windows and lanterns hung on the wall. A great map, rough along the edges and greatly worn and stained with dark patches was spread across the table, showing the island and all its defenses. Tiror stood over the map while Celador and a handful of other men stood around the table. Aragorn stood just slightly behind the men, letting those who know the land best determine how to defend it.

“The causeway gate is shut, and we have many men to defend the wall,” Tiror was saying. “I do not wish to commit many to the Approach, for the retreat to the wall is long and if the gate is breached, we would lose all defenders there. We must fortify the gate from behind, and hope to hold them on the causeway for as long as we can, harassing them with arrows and catapults from here.”  
“What about the banks, my lord?” One of the men situated around the table asked.

“Yes, I think we can harass the enemy as they attempt to land there. It is the only place to put boats or rafts ashore. Though, defense would be limited for men on the beach. It is vulnerable to projectile attacks from both sides,” Tiror said.

“My company can defend it,” Celador spoke up. Tiror looked at him disapprovingly. “Would you strengthen us with one of your companies, for I have many skilled archers with me, and men light of foot,” Celador said.

“I know the strength you bring, Celador,” Tiror said. “But, I have not made up my mind where I wish to commit your rangers.”

Another of the defenders spoke, “Celador may be right. His men could fall back quickly, if the banks is overrun, and their archers could cover the landings.”

Tiror sighed. His men respected him and listened to him, not because he ordered them without care or counsel. He had their trust because he weighed their counsel against his own mind, and allowed them to speak openly in such settings. But, with Celador here, he wished that he could rule without taking into account the thoughts of others around the table. To do so now, on the verge of a siege, would diminish his men’s spirit, and thus he spoke gravely, “Celador’s rangers shall defend the banks. A company of my men will I give to you.”

The men around the table rapped their fists upon it in approval and Celador looked at Tiror, who avoided looking up at the ranger captain. The council continued with its business, though they could feel a slight nervous tension between Tiror and Celador, now. Tiror and his captains planned their defense along the walls and took stock of their supplies and weapons. The day grew long and the room began to dim with the falling sun. At last the council disbanded and went their separate ways, with captains leaving to prepare their men and Celador bid Aragorn to find the ranger company and relay their orders.

He found them in the dimming light of day, sitting among shadows cast by ruined towers and multi-storied buildings. The rangers were spread among the rock debris as if they were pausing in the shelter of a rocky field. However, they had built two fires around which many gathered. Only Tellagor noticed Aragon’s approach and he stood to intercept him, a piece of dry bread in his mouth.

“I have orders from Celador,” Aragorn said. Tellagor looked at Aragorn while chewing and narrowed his eyes, but motioned for Aragorn to pass him and speak to the company. “Rangers, I have orders from Celador,” he said. Barely any of them looked up or noticed his call.

Tellagor shouted with his mouth half full, “Rangers listen up!” All heads turned, and looked at him, but Tellagor pointed to Aragorn and then smiled a toothy grin, bread between his teeth.  
Aragorn watched Tellagor walk away and sit on a broken stone near one of the fires. The rangers all looked at Aragorn, waiting for him to speak. “We are to defend the banks, and another company of Tiror’s men will join us.”

“The banks? That’s out in the open!” A ranger moaned.

“Indeed, but we will repel their boats and rafts upon the shore,” Aragorn said. “Archers will cover us from higher upon the hill behind.”

“We might as well just wave to them as they come ashore,” another ranger said.

Aragorn looked around as he lost the attention of the ranger company and they began breaking into conversations again. He did not know what else to say, and looked at Tellagor, who continued to stare at him, with a wry smile visible through the firelight on his face. Aragorn shook his head and walked to a spot of his own to sit and as the night grew, he fell into thought and a waking sleep.

—

Drums awoke Aragorn suddenly. There followed calls from horns, spread across the walls of the Citadel, and their calls faded; but the drums continued. He leapt to his feet and the rangers were gathering. Celador arrived there as well and as a company they marched through a postern door in the wall that led to the south and to the banks. Celador and Tellagor stood along the road as the company walked down the hill. Aragorn stopped beside them and watched as the darkly-clad rangers moved like shadows in the night; the silver plate and mail of the Cair Andros defenders shined in the moonlight and the light of torches that they carried. Their heavy feet hit the dirt road in a low rumble and their raiments clattered.

“Tellagor, fall in with the archers, and take your positions,” Celador said to the man on his left. Tellagor bowed his head and put a hand on his chest. Then, he walked through the line of soldiers and rangers and disappeared among them. “Thorongil, you shall be with the men of Cair Andros. They will form the center, and my rangers will be on your flanks.”

“Aye,” was all that Aragorn could say.

The host of Cair Andros and Ithilien marched by, and Aragorn and Celador reached the banks with them. Officers walked along the bank of fine rocks and sand and the men shaped up into tight groups. Aragorn stood at the fore of the men who defended Cair Andros. He could see down the line the rangers divided to his left and right. The clattering of weapons and armor fell quiet as all stood still and stared across the dark waters of Anduin.

Across the river, there stood a thin line of red and orange light, like a cruel sunrise. Dark figures flickered by, as the orc war camp prepared their assault. The drumming went on like a deep, ticking clock. They heard shouts and calls in harsh voices, and the roars of unseen beasts. Shrill orc trumpets blared. Over the distant noise, and the soft rushing of Anduin, Aragorn began to hear the rhythmic rush of water as paddles in the river pushed boats along. They could not see the craft, for they carried no lights, and Aragorn looked up to see a great, dark cloud moving from the east, slowly covering the moon overhead. At last, a silver trumpet rang out from the Citadel, then another answered from Tellagor’s position behind them. A fiery arrow pierced the sky, then fell sharply to the river, where its flame was doused. Men drew their swords with a great ringing. Celador’s voice was heard off in the distance. Aragorn drew Narsil, and the men to either side of him glanced sideways at the broken blade, which still seemed as if it reflected the moonlight, though the darkness covered its face entirely.

The orc rafts slid ashore and the host of Cair Andros heard the beating of feet upon wood and then footsteps in the sand and mud. Orcs howled and their eyes pierced the dark; the defenders threw forward their torches to light the bank ahead of them and the orc blades glistened. How many rafts pulled ashore, they could not tell, but the men stood firm. With a shout from Celador and a trumpet’s call, the men rushed forward in a great roar. Aragorn sprinted ahead of the heavier-clad soldiers and he met with the orcs first. He moved among them as swiftly and smoothly as the river current. Bodies fell in his wake, and the blade of Elendil became wet with their dark blood.

The men of gondor roared and shouted as they slew, and many fell at the feet of the orc vanguard. Arrows from Tellagor and his archers whistled overhead and Aragorn heard them hitting the siege rafts with sudden thuds. Soon the soldiers caught up with him as orcs fled before them, and they pushed the attackers back upon the waters. Aragorn found himself splashing in the river up to his ankles, and with a call from behind, he and the others backed away from the river and rallied together again as a wave receded from the shore.

But the strange tongues of the Southrons and their horns echoed in the dark over the water. Aragorn peered through the dark and saw more rafts there, and he heard the tightening of bowstrings.

“Get down! Cover!” He shouted, and men around him raised their shields and huddled together. He fell upon his face on the dirt and arrows whistled overhead. Many found their marks in men who wailed and died in surprise. More arrows came after, and the men of Gondor held shields aloft and scrambled about, tripping over fallen companions.

Tellagor and his archers answered with quick volleys, but the rafts landed, still, and this time men rushed upon the bank. They shouted and chanted, and instead of racing forward they crowded together and marched in order. Arrows came again; Tellagor’s company responded with a clearer sight on their targets. Aragorn climbed to his feet and the men around him looked at him and the bodies that lay around them.

“On your feet! Shields up! Hold the line. For Gondor!” Aragorn shouted at them. The soldiers formed a tight line and they saw the Haradrim move forward, swiftly, now, to close the gap. Aragorn stood tall and the small company beside and behind him met the enemy, swords and shields clashing. The banks became a roar of metal and desperate shouting.

Amid the fray, Aragorn heard high whistles and shouts and suddenly a rush of men crashed into them from the south. Celador’s rangers sprang in from the flank, and only the hardiest of the Haradrim stood defiant. Aragorn and Celador met on the field and Celador at last saw the strength and valor of Thorongil as they danced around one another until the bodies of the slain piled around them and they were forced to find safer footing.

In that moment a crack of thunder from far overhead shook the defenders and a red glow in the clouds above like distant lightning lit the island in repeated flashes. A powerful streak split the sky and struck the banks not far from Celador and Aragorn and the earth beneath them rattled and shook. Men and orc alike fell to their feet and flew from the place where the lightning had struck. They wailed and burned, and Aragorn’s ears were ringing and his eyes could see nothing but a bright light and shapes beyond, as if he emerged from a dark room into bright daylight.

He staggered to his feet and shook his head, rubbing his eyes to clear away the light. Through the sharp ringing in his ears he heard another great boom to the north and looked up at the hill, and could see only a great flash and plume of smoke, and rocks and stones from the causeway began to fall upon the banks and the men and orcs there. As the ringing in his ears began to fade he heard a faint cry, “Thorongil…”

Looking down he saw Celador upon the ground, lying with his back upon a fallen Southron mercenary. His face was darkened and an arrow protruded from his leg. Aragorn rushed to him and knelt beside him. “Be still, Celador. We must get you off the bank,” he said. He looked around as the battle had calmed for a moment around them as both sides scrambled from the sudden strike and explosion upon the hill above.

“You there!” Aragorn called to men nearby. “Take your captain up the hill, to the Citadel, quick!”

The mix of soldiers and rangers came to Celador’s side immediately and began to lift him gently, but Celador gripped Aragorn’s shoulder and refused to move. Celador’s eyes were wet, but flashed still with light and fire reflected within them. “The power of Mordor has broken the Approach. We must fall back, Thorongil!”

“You must go! Either I, or the host of Mordor will die upon this bank,” Aragorn said, taking Celador’s hand firmly in his own. Celador nodded and drifted into an overwhelming sleep. Aragorn looked at the soldiers and rangers standing around them, “Take him! Quick!”

They suddenly snapped to and lifted Celador gently and carried him off the bank, toward the hill. Aragorn stood and looked around. A great company of men stood before him, and behind, toward the water’s edge, the legions of the enemy regrouped as more rafts landed upon the shore. Aragorn lifted his broken blade and held it aloft.

“Men of Gondor! I am Thorongil, and from far North have I come, where the bones of Arnor lay silent. Yet here I am, and in Gondor I hear no silence, and I see no bones laid bare! Let the legions of Mordor hear your voices, and feel your strength!” Aragorn turned and a great line of orcs and Southrons charged upon them, but the men of Gondor shouted as one and clashed their swords upon their shields. The two sides met once more and the foes of Gondor crashed like water upon the northern rocks of Cair Andros. The men pushed and strove until the orcs wailed and fled and the Southrons backed into cold Anduin, where the currents took them.

A great cheer and cry filled the bank as Aragorn stood up to his knees in the cold water. He turned and the men looked at him and shouted and raised their weapons. For a moment Aragorn smiled, but the sight across the river of the orc war camp, and the still burning torches there filled him with resolve once more and he came back upon the shore and the men gathered around him.

“You men, at the quay, you have pitch and other fuel for fire?” He asked those assembled with him.

“Aye, we do my lord,” a soldier answered.

“Take a handful of men with you and bring back all you can carry. We will fall back from the bank, but we will not leave it free for them to return!”

Men ran off to the quay where Aragorn and the rangers landed upon the island. In minutes they returned carrying small barrels and buckets. Aragorn took a bucket himself and he ordered the men to begin pouring the pitch upon the orc rafts that sat scattered on the shore and floating still in the shallow water. Aragorn took a brand from a soldier and tossed it upon a raft, which burst into bright flame. Along the bank, the men lit fires on the rafts and soon a great wall of flame defended the beach of Cair Andros. From the Citadel high upon the hill, the men along the walls could see the light and they saw in the shimmering beside the flames their brothers, and cheers lifted their spirits and the men on the bank returned the cheers.

“Now, fall back, up the hill! We must join those in defense of the Citadel, for the Approach has fallen, and the enemy will lay siege to the walls and great gates,” Aragorn cried.

He and the soldiers and rangers regrouped and marched up the hill. Tellagor’s archers, their numbers thin from opposing volleys, sat on the roadside, tending to wounded men and retrieving arrows nearby. Tellagor stood as Aragorn walked at the head of the column returning from the bank.  
“I saw Celador,” Tellagor said, his voice filled with doubt.

“Do not fear! Celador’s fate is not yet sealed. But, it may be if we despair and falter at the defense,” Aragorn said. He put a hand on Tellagor’s shoulder and the once-steely ranger looked at him with a distant stare, “Come, your archers will be of use upon the wall. We have saved the bank as best we can! Now, the last battle begins.”

—

Upon the walls of the Citadel, two thousand men stood, peering across the plain at a great, dark mass of orcs, Southrons, and all their beasts and machinery marching toward them. Behind the wall, hundreds of men prepared catapults and loaded them with projectiles of broken stone and pots filled with Gondorian Fire. Archers raced about to their positions, and a great company of men awaited behind the great gate. The steady doom, boom of drums from the orc army filled the air.

Aragorn and what remained of the company at his back reached the postern door and they filed in, taking a brief moment to catch their breath and their spirits were high. Aragorn stood to the side as the men came through the door and it was only then that he noticed their dwindling numbers. Men came through carrying their injured brethren, or walked through the door with no weapons in hand and a blank stare upon their face. The few guards at the postern door closed it behind them and dropped a great beam across it. Aragorn stood and stared at only five men guarding the door, and they sat down again upon barrels, or on the ground, their weapons leaning against the stone walls.

Tellagor walked up to Aragorn, his face still sunken and pale, “I do not count more than fifty. We have lost nearly half our number, it seems. More, still, came back injured, though some are still able and willing to fight.”

Aragorn nodded, “We lost much more than I could count on the field. But, still, we have done our jobs well.” Aragorn clapped Tellagor on the shoulder, “Let us go! Lead your men. In Celador’s absence, I shall follow your lead. You have the strength to guide them, to rally them. I have been at the point of your arrows. The enemy still has reason to fear you, Tellagor.”

The ranger’s face changed and once again Aragorn saw in it the steel and fire that he had witnessed in Ithilien. Tellagor then smiled at him and turned away to his men, shouting, “Company! We must away! To the wall, where our brothers now stand against the shadow!”

The rangers and soldiers of Cair Andros all cheered and raised their weapons, or hands, and their spirits were rallied. The depleted company followed Tellagor and Aragorn through the Citadel, and they stopped only to replenish their arrows and swords and shields for those who lost them upon the banks. Many men split off towards the healing houses, and though their ranks dwindled further, when they reached the based of the wall near the great gate, they were greeted with cheers and trumpet calls from the men awaiting the siege on the ground in the courtyard before the gate.

The company waited there, mingling with those men as Tellagor and Aragorn climbed great stone steps up the ramparts where Tiror stood with guards on either side of him, and the great many soldiers away in both directions. There was a wind from the east, and the banners of Gondor fluttered above Tiror, who stood at the parapet, only looking away from the host of Mordor as he heard his guards stop Tellagor and Aragorn.

“Let them through,” Tiror said, turning to greet them. “How goes the banks? We saw a great firelight and black smoke rise behind the hills.”

“We have stopped their advance, though at great cost,” Tellagor said.

The truth of what Tellagor said finally landed upon Tiror’s face, and it grew dark and his eyes watered. Though he steeled himself, his voice still wavered, “Celador?”

“He is wounded, my lord, but not gravely. He is with your healers, now,” Aragorn said.

“Right. Right,” Tiror muttered. Then he looked back at them with grim resolve, “So, the banks are saved?”

“For now,” Tellagor said.

“My lord, this may not be the time, but I noticed few men guarding the postern door to the south. And, with such a host now before us, why would the enemy devote forces to the banks, if not to attempt to encircle us through such a weakly-defended entrance?” Aragorn said.

Tiror thought for a moment. “You are right, Thorongil, that must have been their plan. But, you have made the banks safe again. So I do not think we must worry about that. Their thrust was turned aside, and now, the hammer stroke falls upon us.”

Aragorn pushed the point no further, and he and Tellagor awaited further orders. After conferring with his other captains nearby on the parapet, Tiror sent Tellagor and his remaining archers away to their right. Where Tiror stood was a parapet that stood directly over the gate, and higher than the rest of the wall by ten feet. Tellagor and Aragorn exchanged words and the ranger was gone.

Aragorn now stood beside Tiror as they both looked out over the plain. The army of Mordor was near, and Tiror awaited them to enter range of his catapults. Never had Aragorn seen such a host, and he quaked slightly at the sight of it. Though he had fought and slain many orcs in the wild, never had he faced down such a number in a battle that would soon begin. The mass moved like slow, dark water running over a dry river bed. The torches they carried bounced against the darkness, and the great boom, doom, of their drums seemed to catch the rhythm of his heart beating in his chest.

“Thorongil,” Tiror said to him. “You saw Celador on the banks?”

“I did, my lord. He suffered an arrow, and I called for your men to carry him to safety,” Aragorn said. “You are close to him, I know. I did what I could in the moment.”

Tiror sighed and his armor seemed to swallow him as his shoulders fell and he put his hands on the parapet in front of him. “Celador and I have known one another since we were young. It broke my heart when our paths diverged, though, we have stayed tethered by more than friendship since youth. I dare not think of what I would do were he to fall. I thank you for what you have done, here. Not only for Gondor, but for me.”

Aragorn struggled to find the words for the Lord of Cair Andros, who in the moment did not seem like a stalwart defender of his people, but merely a man, worried for the one he loved. Aragorn stepped forward and stood beside Tiror. “I will stand beside you, and if I may protect you to reunite you with Celador, then I shall have saved more than just Gondor, tonight.”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy,” Tiror said, a hint of a laugh in his voice.

A great drumming brought their attention quickly up and over the parapet. The host of Mordor had halted briefly, and they could see across the dark plain their own catapults being loaded. Tiror looked out and his face hardened. He turned to one of his guards standing behind and nodded. The guard brought a horn to his lips and blew a great blast that rang out across the night, drowning out the orcs’ drums for a moment. Then, he turned and waved a banner and the men of Cair Andros sprang into action.

With a great roar, the catapults launched overhead and Aragorn ducked as projectiles flew over him, though far enough to pose no danger to himself. Tiror, used to the sensation of such warfare, did not flinch. The flaming pots burst upon the orcs, their shields, and the ground around them. Stone crashed into the ranks and felled many. But, the cruel masters whipped and growled at their thrall, and the orcs stood firm. Again the catapults launched and stone struck the orc catapults, shattering two into splinters. Flames erupted again where the pots fell, and orcs scrambled, shrieking while they burned.

At last, a cruel, deep horn sounded, and the orc drums quickened pace, doom, boom boom, doom, and the great host charged ahead. Tiror roared and another of his guards blew a horn blast, and waved. Then, with a snap as one, hundreds of archers launched their arrows, which flew high, and fell upon the advancing host. The whips of their masters were greater than the fear of the weapons of Gondor, and the Orc Vanguard did not halt. The force reached the wall, and a great mass of bodies piled at its foot.

Tiror and Aragorn leaned over the parapet and from among the mass of orcs below, they saw great ladders being lifted. Behind the orc vanguard assault, more orderly troops advanced, and Aragorn recognized the chanting and singing and blowing horns of the Southrons and Haradrim soldiers. The orc catapults began launching stone that flew over the wall and crashed into the towers and buildings behind them. More found closer marks and struck the wall on its face, sending crumbling fragments down upon their own forces. Flaming projectiles also flew and exploded behind the wall, fire catching across the defense. Horns blew behind them, and Aragorn looked below as behind the wall, men raced about to put out the fires or tend to their wounded brethren. The catapults of Cair Andros no longer fired rapidly, but their volleys became slow and fewer in number.

Orc ladders fell against the parapet all along the wall, and they began pouring up the sides, and over the parapet. They at last clashed with the Men of Gondor. Aragorn looked to his right along the wall, and back at Tiror, who stood overlooking the siege, but was focused on the gate below. A column of orcs and beasts followed the road to the gate. Tiror shouted orders as archers on the wall near the gate began turning their arrows upon the approaching column. But Aragorn watched as the orcs along the wall sowed chaos, and the archer volleys slowed as men fell.

“Tiror! I must do more than stand here,” Aragorn shouted at last.

Tiror turned to him and decisively said, “I give you leave. Find relief for those archers, and men above the gate! A ram approaches.”

Aragorn drew Narsil and it flashed and Tiror gazed upon it with awe and confusion as he saw that the blade was broken, but Aragorn wielded it with confidence. He gave one last nod to Tiror before turning to the right and, instead of following the steps, he simply leaped over the parapet, shouting, and Tiror and his guards watched and shared strange and surprised looks as they saw him disappear below.

With a great crash, Aragorn landed and rolled upon the stone below, the jump not only knocking him off kilter, but also knocking a number of orcs to their feet. He stood quickly and fell many around him. The men looked upon him with wide eyes as he pushed to the fore and cut his way to an orc ladder. There, he saw many orcs still climbing, and at the bottom, still, Southrons awaiting to make their ascent. With a great swing he cut an orc that reached the parapet, and it tumbled down, knocking others off the ladder as it fell.

“You there! Lend a hand!” Aragorn shouted at two nearby soldiers. They rushed to his side and the three of them pushed with all their strength and the orc ladder fell back, the weight of the orcs upon it doing the rest of the work as it fell and cracked upon the ground below. Aragorn turned to the men, “We must knock down as many ladders as we can! Spread the word!”

The two soldiers nodded and deferred to Aragorn’s word. He turned the other way and went back toward the gate, and a doorway that led into an enclosed hall, with windows looking out over the road. Along the way he helped archers to their feet and they returned volleys down upon the orc column approaching the gate. Inside the hallway, archers fired down upon the enemy, and men readied pitch and flame, as well as baskets of stone. He passed behind them freely and on the other side he found Tellagor, his bow abandoned, fighting for his life beside rangers and plate-clad soldiers. Many orc bodies lay on the walkway, but the defenders struggled against the Southrons and Haradrim elite who now came over the parapet.

Aragorn rushed in and fell the men who surrounded Tellagor, and then he continued, as he cut a path for the defenders to regain their footing and stand together. Tellagor shouted to him as more Haradrim came over the side. Aragorn reached the ladder and crossed his blade with a cloaked Haradrim soldier, whose face was covered. Another came over the ladder, but quickly fell as Tellagor had picked up his bow and shot the soldier through the chest, his body falling back over the wall. Tellagor and the rangers ran up beside Aragorn and they slew the Haradrim soldier.

“Good to see you,” Tellagor said, a dark smile on his face, which was black and red with the blood of men and orcs.

“You, too, my friend,” Aragorn said. “We must get rid of this ladder! Tell your men to do the same down the line!” Thus Tellagor and Aragorn pushed the ladder back and it fell upon the men and orcs below. As they turned to go their separate ways, the rhythming boom, boom, boom of the ram upon the gate below rose above all other noise.

Aragorn rushed back to the hall above the gate and the men there poured fire and stone down upon the column, but the ram was well-guarded, and the stones bounced off shields to the ground. Aragorn ducked as orc arrows came at the windows and rang off the stone walls around him. When the ram struck the gate, the stone beneath his feet seemed to shudder. But, the screaming of men away to the right caught his ear, and he turned to see men fleeing into the hallway, and fire behind them.

But, Aragorn pushed through the men, and came out of the hallway as orcs leapt over the parapet from ladders, newly tossed upon the wall. But Aragorn saw the orcs wielding torches and tossing them over the wall, setting fire to things behind, and men upon the rampart. Aragorn charged into them and slew many, and their torches fell to the ground. The men rallied and returned to their posts around him, and he picked up several of the orc torches and set fire to the ladder upon which they climbed, They shrieked and fell, and the ladder, as well as the orcs climbing it, caught fire.

Looking over the parapet, he saw the ram swing out from the gate and crash against it, and with each swing, the gate surrendered, and he knew it would soon fall. But, as the ram flew again, Aragorn saw at its rear, as orcs gathered, a strange sight. He quickly ran across the rampart, and found Tellagor, bow in-hand once more, his section of the wall clear of the enemy and his quiver of arrows fast dwindling.  
“Tellagor!” Aragorn shouted. The ranger stopped and held onto the arrow on his string, and looked back. “I need your eye. Can you bring two men, quickly, to the other side!”

Tellagor did not hesitate and called to two of his fellow rangers, who all followed Aragorn to the other side of the gate and there, he pointed down to the rear of the ram and the orcs gathered there. “Look! The orcs have blundered. I saw these arsonists upon the wall, and see there, fuel for their fire is gathered near to the ram! In their haste to breach the gate and set fire to the Citadel, they have stockpiled their arms too close to their ram.”

“I see it! Though, what do you plan to do about it? Certainly we cannot climb down and assault them on the ground,” Tellagor said.

Aragorn picked up a torch, which still flickered as its fuel burned low. “The men in the hall above the gate have your Gondorian fire, or fuel for it, and we can light your arrows, if your aim is true enough!”

Tellagor took minor offense at the comment, but he took the jab in stride as Aragorn smiled at him, “Light my arrows, and we shall do the work!”

Aragorn quickly gathered strips of cloth from his cloak and those of fallen men and Tellagor and his rangers tied them at the base of their arrowheads. Aragorn brought a small pot of pitch and the rangers dipped their arrows in the liquid, and Aragorn lit them aflame. Tellagor stood with one foot upon the parapet, his bow drawn as his two companions stood behind him as well, with all three steady. At last Tellagor’s arrow flew, and quickly thereafter, so too did those of his companions. Aragorn leaned over the parapet and watched as the arrows struck true, and for a moment, he waited and began to despair.

But, in a great flash that nearly threw him back from the wall, he shielded his eyes as the fuel for the orcs’ fires erupted and all around the ram were stricken with panic. The pots and gathered munitions of Mordor erupted in another great blast, and the ram shook and caught fire as well. Orcs ran in all directions, flames on their backs, and a great wreckage of wood, metal, and flame blocked the road just before the gate.

Tellagor clapped Aragorn across his shoulders and gripped him tightly, laughing as men along the wall began to cheer. “You’ve done it again, Thorongil! A real firebrand, you are!”

The great fireball burned brightly, lifting thick black smoke high into the air, and against the glowing flames, morning dawned in the east. The arm of Mordor was not yet strong enough to hold back the day, and with the fire before them, and the Sun rising at their backs, the orcs wailed, and fled back across the Approach. The Men of Gondor cheered along the wall, and as they slew the remaining enemy on the ramparts, Tiror’s guards blew clear ringing blasts on their horns. The banners of Gondor caught high in the morning breeze around him, Tiror waved down to Aragorn and Tellagor. And though the day rose clear and bright, all cheer mixed with grief and the slow, growing sounds of cries and laments, as men sought out their brethren among the dead and wounded. Aragorn walked along the rampart, his body and mind weary from the night. Many lay fallen all around him, yet Cair Andros stood.


	11. The Captains of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the Siege of Cair Andros, Aragorn's deeds spread through the fortress and the men admire this newcomer from the North. But, Tiror must decide what to do with him, now, that the battle is won. Should Aragorn be left to travel freely in Gondor, or sent back to Minas Tirith to face the Steward's judgment? In the end, Aragorn must say farewell to the wounded Celador, who stays at Cair Andros to be mended.

Aragorn stood upon the ramparts of the Citadel, overlooking the field and away beyond, the causeway that crossed Anduin. In the bright morning, he could see across to the eastern bank, shrouded in mist that the Sun had not yet burned away. Where the orc camp had lit the night, it now lay silent and deserted. Small fires and wisps of white smoke rose above the mist and between the river and forest beyond, the earth looked trampled and battered like soft mud beneath heavy feet.

The causeway gate and stone towers guarding it on either side lay in shambles, the wood and iron splintered and twisted, while stone debris lay across the road. Aragorn recalled hearing the blast and seeing the fire of some unknown power of Mordor rending the gate and towers. The field that lay before the walls was littered with the slain bodies of orcs, shattered siege engines, and the remains of weapons and armor left behind by the fleeing enemy. The smell of smoke and death filled the air, blown over the Citadel by a soft wind from the East.

He felt heavy and tired, but more than fatigue weighed on his heart as he stood aside from the parapet to allow two soldiers, carrying the body of a comrade, to pass by. The morning’s work was grim, and he aided men wherever he could. Though the battle had been won, many sat in quiet solitude, with wounds unseen, the names and memories of their companions fresh in their hearts. The day moved slowly, and the defenders of Cair Andros became masons, carpenters, and blacksmiths.

Within the Citadel, in a far northern corner, injured men gathered in a courtyard, which was surrounded by buildings with open windows that looked north and west. The wounded sat against walls and against a large cistern in the center of the courtyard. Two trees provided shade for the yard. Aragorn tended to some, wrapping their wounds and spending his remaining supply of Athelas that he brought from the north to soothe their pain and ward away infection. Men who witnessed him the night before marveled at his tenderness and the change in his face as he softened and whispered words to them in elvish tongues, and they knew clearly that he was from a world that seemed wholly different from their own. His words sent warmth into their bodies and a haze in their minds as if they merely rested after a hard day’s work beneath a tree at the height of a fair summer.

Aragorn came into one of the buildings and walked among the beds where men lay and found back near an open window Tiror, seated beside the wounded Celador. They tenderly held hands and spoke together with smiles upon their faces. Celador’s leg was tightly bound and the color in his face told Aragorn that the ranger was quickly recovering. As Aragorn approached, Celador saw him and waved his free hand to him.

“Thorongil, I am pleased to see you,” he said. “Because of you I lie here, now, and not upon the banks!”

Aragorn smiled and stood beside the bed next to Tiror, “Did I carry you back to the Citadel? Nay, your men saved your life.”  
“But the banks did not fall, and you cannot have others take your credit, there,” Celador said, laughing. “And from the sound of it, you saved the citadel as well!” He looked at Tiror who blushed.

“Indeed, I have told Celador of how you led the men upon the ramparts, and saved the great gate from the ram,” Tiror said.

“You mean, where Tellagor and his archers shot the enemy’s munitions?” Aragorn said, waving his hand.

“I think we have met our match, and our attempts at flattery are in vain,” Celador laughed, rubbing his forehead.

“I came to serve Gondor, and thus I have as best I could,” Aragorn said. “It was my honor to serve you in your hour of need,” he put a hand on his chest and bowed.

Tiror kissed Celador’s forehead and stood, “There shall be a feast tonight. The men will toil through the day, but once the dead are laid to rest, I shall call them to rest themselves, and we shall celebrate. It is never good to delay a celebration of victory too long,” he said. “Would Celador be able by then, would you sit beside us at our table?”

“That would also be my honor, my lord,” Aragorn said, bowing his head again.

Tiror looked back at Celador, “Then, we shall see you in the eve. I give you leave to do as you wish for today. You have already aided many, and you must renew your own strength. You may have come to aid Gondor, but by caring for yourself today do you also strengthen Gondor tomorrow.”

Aragorn bowed once more and left the two men. He walked back through the beds and into the courtyard and he wandered the pathways of the Citadel until he found a secluded corner of wall, and on the other side, looking to the west through the parapets, he saw a vast green plain, with copses of trees at intervals, and Anduin winding away, looping back and forth on itself to the north and west. He smiled and the thought of Lothlorien and Imladris came to him like a dream. He thought of the lady Arwen Undomiel and how he found her standing beneath a grove, barefoot and wandering amid flowers. He slowly nodded off to sleep, back to a stone, and his head leaning against the parapet.

There was not enough room for all of the defenders of Cair Andros inside the hall that night, and many still ate and drank at tables spread outside among the rubble of the battle. The mood was joyous, and spirits were high throughout the citadel. Within the hall, the captains sat at tables together, and many soldiers filled in the spaces. At a wide table at the head of the room, sat Tiror, Celedor, Aragorn, and two other captains.

With a strong fist, Tiror pounded the table and all voices died down and all in the room looked toward him. He stood and raised his cup of ale, “Tonight we honor those brothers who no longer stand beside us. From smith to captain, they stood as a shield against Mordor. And now, Gondor mourns their passing, but celebrates their victory. Let mighty Anduin carry them swiftly, and by their sacrifice, may we continue to stand here, against the shadow.”

The men in the room erupted into a shout, and they rapped their fists on their tables, and all were quiet as they drank. But Tiror did not sit; he looked down at Celador at his side and continued, “Those who are no longer here do not tell the whole tale. For many among us still, also bear responsibility for our survival. Celador, Captain of Ithilien, who came to our aid with all speed! His men held the banks from the enemy, and he himself suffered at their hands!”

Another shout erupted as men echoed Celador’s name. The ranger blushed and bent his head, smiling. The captain beside him threw an arm around his shoulder and shook his hand. Tiror’s face carried a wide smile, and he turned to Aragorn. “Beside me here is a man many of you do not yet know, though, saw him you may have upon the banks, upon the ramparts, and among the house of healing. From the north he came, our kin from long ages past, a man of Arnor, Thorongil! I praise him, as well!”

“Thorongil!” the room shouted at once. They raised their cups and drank to him, and Aragorn smiled wide, and saluted the Men of Gondor in return.

The feast continued with many in high spirits. The men sang songs to their comrades and drank to their hearts’ content. Deep voices raised high in song filled Aragorn with warmth. He ate and drank his fill, and talked with Celador and Tiror as old friends. There was much he wished to know of them, and he spent much of the evening asking of their histories.

“Little is there to say of myself,” Celador said, finally, after Tiror had finished his tale. “I am of Anorien, from a small village where men and women farm and raise livestock. A far cry from the walls of Minas Tirith and the Pelennor,” he said, making a jab at Tiror and his upbringing.

“And how did you two come to know one another?” Aragorn asked.

Celador laughed, “We entered the Steward’s service at about the same time, and I had ridden to Minas Tirith.”

“Looking to make a name for himself, he was!” Tiror leaned over and shouted over the noise.

Celador shook his head, “Nonsense, I merely wished to do more than farm, as my father and his father before him had done. And I met Tiror in the city, and he was trained for war it seemed, already. I took to mail and plate poorly. But, he shone in it, and I was envious.”

“Indeed, he would never make a Tower Guard, but I could not look away from his speed and his grace. Such skill with a bow I could never master! Though we conspired together at night to strengthen our weaknesses, I believe we knew that we were destined to take branching paths,” Tiror said.

“We found our paths, indeed. Though they split at Osgiliath, and Tiror stayed at the garrison there, I left for Ithilien. My heart was glad to be among the wood and wild lands, so similar to those I grew up roaming. But, heavy my heart was, always being so far from Tiror,” Celador said.

“But such a fine pair you make! Each complementing the other, such as you would hope to find in any pair; your strength holds up the other where he may be without. I am glad that my errand led to your reunion,” Aragorn said.

Tiror and Celador toasted him and laughed, “To Thorongil! The Eagle of Cair Andros! The Reunifier!” Other men heard the shouts of “Thorongil” and “Eagle” and lifted their voices and cups, too, though they knew not of what the captains spoke.

“Now that our fight is won, it comes time for us to depart once more. Though, it will be a joy to have peaceful days and nights between then and now. Thorongil, tomorrow, we shall all speak again, and your fate, not our meetings, will be the subject!” Tiror said, raising his cup once more and finishing his ale.

—

The following day, Aragorn met Tiror, Celador, and other captains in Tiror’s chambers, where they gathered around the same table as before the battle. Tiror was busy discussing further plans with his men, and how they would refortify the island and the surrounding environment to hunt for the remnants of the enemy. Scouts and some of Celedaor’s rangers were preparing to leave to seek the trail of retreat. Tiror estimated they had lost several hundred men, and many more wounded. Celador’s rangers were weakened by half, and the grief of their loss showed on his face.

Aragorn stood beside the door as the other captains left the room, with only Tiror and Celador remaining at the table. Tiror called Aragorn and he sat down with them. “Our thanks to you, Thorongil, for your warning, and your service in the hour of need,” Tiror said.

“I wished to speak with you, Tiror, about the message I received in Pelargir, and how I came upon it,” Aragorn said. This piqued Tiror’s interest, and Celador’s also, and they exchanged glances before Tiror beckoned Aragorn to continue.

“Alcaron had news of this attack, but far west, in Pelargir. That did not land upon me at the moment, but near to the battle, I had time to think of the circumstances, and I found them to be unusual,” Aragorn said.

“Hmm, I do think you are right in that regard at least,” Tiror said. “From one border to another, Gondor has enemies, so it may not be so strange for news of their plans to be found far and wide.”

Aragorn thought for a moment, “Aye, that may be true. Perhaps more shall come from the enemy? Were they conspiring for strikes upon your realm on both fronts?”

“It is possible. I cannot speak to the duties of Lord Alcaron, and how he may have come across such intelligence,” Tiror said. “His duty he fulfilled in this case, however.”

“That I do not doubt!” Aragorn said, regretting that his inquiry may have been seen by the captains as disparaging a lord of Gondor. “Also, the night of the battle, I thought it strange that the enemy would send such a force across the river itself, unless they knew of such weaknesses in your defense as the postern door to the south, and other such places.”

Celador spoke, “Many spies range through Ithilien. I and my men attempt to thwart them as best we can. Though, our numbers are fewer than I would like for such a task.”

“This I fear is how Alcaron came into possession of intelligence from the enemy. Common thugs attacked him at the Leaping Fish, where we met. But, it was not a common thug who came to finish the deed,” Aragorn said.

“I see your meaning. More skilled than the hired muscle, with more wit than an orc?” Celador asked. Aragorn nodded.

“You may be right, Thorongil, and there may be eyes and ears within Gondor that wish to see and hear our plans, and who wish to do us harm,” Tiror said. “But, that is for me to discover here at Cair Andros, and for Celador in Ithilien. Now, we must discuss your fate. Though I cannot bind you to stay at Cair Andros, I feel it is now my duty to send you to Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn looked at him and then to Celador, “I do not wish to interfere with the laws and customs of your realm,” he said. “If I must stand before your Steward and explain my purpose, I shall do so.”

Tiror shook his head, “I do not send you on that road for judgement. Quite the contrary. Celador said you came south to aid Gondor, and though that you have done, there is yet more to do. If you pledge your strength for more than one day and night, I believe the Steward, and his council shall have say over where they send you.”  
“I would have you return with me to Ithilien, if I could,” Celador said. “This errand has decreased our numbers, and your sword would be welcome.”

“A charge I would gladly accept, if I am thus ordered,” Aragorn smiled.

“Celador speaks hastily,” Tiror rolled his eyes. “He is to stay here until he is able to fully walk again. His wound will take time to heal. But, you shall leave today, and guards I will send along with you. They shall carry this,” he held up a piece of paper. “I have described your deeds, with Celador speaking on your behalf, as well. Ecthelion will greet you warmly, if you present this to him. And thus, he may know your skill before he decides where next to send you.”

Aragorn stood, and took the paper from Tiror. He smiled warmly, and Tiror stood and shook his hand. Aragorn leaned across the table and shook hands with Celador so that the ranger did not have to stand. “Two greater captains I could not have dreamed of meeting,” Aragorn said.

“Nay, three Captains of Gondor stand here, today,” Celador said. “For if Ecthelion does not deem it so, you shall always have such a place among my company.”

“We would be honored to have the Eagle of Cair Andros here, and any man will welcome you, should you return,” Tiror said. He tapped his finger on the chest of Aragorn’s cuirass and the eagle there.

“Farewell, my friends. I wish happiness to you both! May this time of healing be a reprieve for you, before duty calls you once more,” Aragorn said, and he bowed to them both.

—

Though he had seen it only days before, the Rammas Echor filled Aragorn with wonder still. A broad wall of at least twenty feet in height. As Aragorn traveled with three other soldiers on horseback from Cair Andros along the Ithilien Road, and then west through ruined Osgiliath, they came upon the Causeway Forts. Two towers stood on either side of the wide road, and a great iron gate stood open. The wall ran in either direction as far as Aragorn could see, and several leagues lay between them and the great city of Minas Tirith.

Trumpets rang out as the riders approached and men called from high upon the towers. Guards greeted them and Aragorn did not draw their gaze, as they spoke in a friendly manner with the riders who accompanied them. Clad in silver plate and helmets, one carried a black banner with the Livery of Elendil upon it. The other rider handed to one of the guards a scroll and after reading it, the guard waved them through the gate. Aragorn rode between the two other riders, and they galloped along a dirt road that passed beneath pleasant trees and then into a wide plain with farms and small towns on either side.

The Pelennor Fields were green and plentiful, and men and women tilled the earth along the road, and crops grew in great numbers and colors. Small villages and towns dotted the great plain, and groves of trees stood here and there, providing peaceful shade for farmers and their children. The sounds that came from the farms and trees were all too familiar to him, as children sang and laughed from within and below the trees. Men called and shouted as the riders rode by, standing and stretching their backs. They called to their horses as oxen as they drove teams of them across plowed fields.

“Such a lovely place!” Aragorn exclaimed.

“Indeed, the Pelennor is home to many, and these people provide food and other goods to the city, as well as all of Gondor,” one of the riders said.

“They are protected by such strong walls, as well,” Aragorn said.

“Aye, the Rammas was built by Ecthelion, since the fall of Ithilien. No force of the enemy could breach it!” The soldier said proudly.

Aragorn smiled and nodded to him as they rode on, and approaching the city, the land rose and rolled gently with hills and stone before the mountains. As they rounded a final corner in the road, and the trees opened up, Aragorn saw before them a great sight. Beyond small hills, a great black wall, smooth and glistening like black glass, stood high above them, and rounded the hill to the north and south. It stretched on and its height was marvelous, with white banners flowing in the breeze and small towers and guardhouses at intervals. Rising above the wall, still, were the many levels of Minas Tirith.

He looked up and his mouth fell open as he marveled at the white stone and the great rock that spurred out from the mountain overhead. Aragorn could see each level as they stood, rising in smaller circles to the citadel, where there high above the plain, a white tower gleamed in the sunlight. Aragorn held the reins in his left and shielded his eyes from the sun with his right, and the riders that trotted along beside him laughed to themselves.

“It is a wonder, is it not?” one of them said.

“I have never seen anything like it,” Aragorn said. “Even in Imladris, where the valley has beauty that I could hardly name, and the house of Elrond is like a jewel among trees, never have I seen such work by the hands of men. I dare say it could only be rivaled by few of the dwarf realms which I have seen.”

Aragorn could tell that his judgment pleased, and perhaps left a sour taste in the mouths of the riders. They rode quietly for a moment, and he thought he may have spoken ill of the city by comparing its stoneworks with that of dwarves, for the men seemed to take personal pride in the city, as if only the hands of great men could achieve such things.  
At the great gate of Gondor, wide enough for some twenty riders to pass through shoulder-to-shoulder, the riders called out and a trumpet rang. With a loud grinding of gears and stone, the gates slowly opened and they trotted upon white stone into a courtyard with a street, Rath Celerdain, that ran along the first level and up to the second gate. They passed swiftly, riding east and west and the roads and levels folded back on one another and they rode through each gate until at last reaching the sixth level. There, they dismounted, and their horses were kept well in stables for soldiers and lords of Gondor. They walked the rest of the way, up the hill further and to the final gate, which opened on the citadel.

The courtyard reached far across the spur of the mountain, and was paved with white stone out to a parapet that divided the courtyard from the rocky spur’s peak. In the center stood a bare tree, surrounded by a fountain and a sward of green. Before the door of the courtyard stood two guards, wearing black garb embroidered with the Livery of Elendil. Their helms shined in the sun and wings of sea-birds extended from them. They were tall and fair, and even Aragorn felt small in their presence. Knowing the appearance of the soldiers who were with him, they allowed the three to pass into the courtyard freely, and Aragorn saw more of the Tower Guard standing watch by the tree.

At last, they entered a great hall of white columns and dark, marbled stone. Long it ran until it ended in a high chair, the throne of Gondor. But no man sat there, and only an aged man, with dark hair mixed with wisps of white, sat on a lesser chair below. The man stood and immediately the two men with Aragorn stopped and bowed their heads. Aragorn abruptly stopped as well, though he took steps further than the other soldiers, and he bowed also.

“Greetings! Come!” the aged man called, his voice deep, but warm. The three approached and stopped short of the chair and the aged man greeted each in turn. “I am Ecthelion, son of Turgon, Steward of Gondor,” he said to Aragorn.

“Well met, my lord. I am Thorongil, of the Dunedain in the North,” Aragorn said.

“Ah, indeed. Eagle of the Star, a fitting name for you!” Ecthelion said. Aragorn looked up at him in surprise, “A bird reached us ere you came, and Tiror spoke highly of your deeds at Cair Andros. The men there called you the ‘Eagle’, and now I see why. Such a fine cuirass!”

“Made in Pelargir, my lord,” Aragorn said.

Ecthelion dismissed the soldiers, who handed him a scroll and departed silently. “Come, Thorongil, let us speak together.” He led Aragorn out of the great hall and into a smaller chamber where they sat in gilded chairs at a round table, six other chairs sat empty around it also, and there were shelves of books along the walls, and many papers on the table.

“You have further word from Tiror, yes?” Ecthelion asked. Aragorn produced the scroll given to him at Cair Andros and handed it over. The Steward unrolled it and read it silently, nodding only at times, and then, he let it fall to the table. “Little more did he reveal here than in the messenger he sent earlier. Though he trusts you well, now, there is a strong practice to send double messages in times such as this, especially from our borderlands to the east.”

“Tiror wished I see you, to find a station in your service, be that at Cair Andros, or elsewhere,” Aragorn said.

“Aye, and such a station is well-earned, for Tiror has vouched for you, and such an honor I cannot ignore,” Ecthelion said. “But first, tell me of your journey here, for I understand you had some trouble in Pelargir, and were sent upon this errand which has now led you to my city.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn said. “When I traveled south, I expected to reach your city at leisure, but that was not to be.”

“Hm, Pelargir can be a dangerous place, though the lords there do as best they can,” Ecthelion rubbed his stubbled chin. “Such closeness to the sea and to our enemies.”

“I found the city quite fair, local trouble aside,” Aragorn said.

“Lord Alcaron’s trouble,” Ecthelion said. “I tell you, that man seems to attract such perils, and how I do not know!”

“I have asked that myself,” Aragorn said, though more gravely than Ecthelion.

The Steward’s mood changed, “Oh? Of what do you speak?”

“I spoke to Tiror after the battle, and we pondered such a question among ourselves, and Celador, his companion, a ranger of Ithilien,” Aragorn said.

“Yes, I know Celador, and he is a valiant man. I could never hope for a better pair as Tiror and Celador to protect North Ithilien,” Ecthelion said.

“I judge them the same as you,” said Aragorn. “But, we pondered the nature of Alcaron’s warning, and how he came by such news so far west. For, by the time I reached Cair Andros, and with little delay in Ithilien, the attack was imminent, and Tiror had prepared for many days.”

“Hmm, this is strange, indeed,” Ecthelion said. “Though, I suspect Alcaron did his duty as best he could. As I said, many enemies hide in Pelargir, and many of our own people have fallen to the shadow, I fear.”

“I wished not to press the point at Cair Andros, for Tiror and Celador seemed uneasy as I may have hinted at Alcaron’s loyalty,” Aragorn said. “But, whether he did so knowingly, or not, I find his role thus far to be strange at least.”  
Ecthelion sank back in his chair and sighed. He rubbed his forehead with one hand. “I fear there is more afoot in Minas Tirith than I know. I believe you have made a fair point, and that you may be a man to uncover the truth, here. Tiror was right, and I do wish to find a station for you in service to Gondor. However, I do not yet think that it is at the border, defending walls or gates. Would you enter my service, publicly we shall make it, though, your task remains private?”

Aragorn straightened, “I would, my lord.”

Ecthelion smiled, “Excellent! Then, we shall have you appear at court tomorrow. There, I will honor you, Thorongil, Eagle of Cair Andros, and Captain of Gondor! But, following that, you and I shall speak again, and with my trust, I shall send you on another errand, and I hope you prove yourself once more.”


	12. Fear Beneath the Tower of Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn (Thorongil) comes to Minas Tirith, and before Ecthelion II, Steward of Gondor, is named a Captain in the Steward's service. Following the ceremony, he meets Denethor, Ecthelion's son, and the three converse of a secretive plot that Denethor has been investigating within the city's underworld. Aragorn and Denethor work together and devise a plan to infiltrate the cabal, and search for its leader. But, the two are quickly at odds, as Denethor is less trusting of Thorongil than most.

Many gathered in the Tower of Ecthelion, where the Steward stood alone upon the dais before the steps that led up to the throne. In his hand he held an ornate, white rod. His shoulders were covered in a great coat lined with fur. Aragorn knelt before him and lords and captains watched from seats between the many columns, or standing behind. His hair was neatly combed and washed, and he wore his original blue cloak, clasped with the star brooch given to him by the elves. His cuirass had been cleaned and his appearance fit with the mighty and proud lords of Gondor. As Ecthelion placed the rod lightly on Aragorn’s shoulder, he looked up and stood, bowing his head as those in attendance voiced their approval.

Thus Aragorn stood as a Captain of Gondor, and his face was bright and proud, for the honor landed softly upon him, and he felt kinship with all those around him. Turning to look upon the council of Gondor, soldiers, Guards of the Citadel, and other captains, some looked at him proudly, and with affection, knowing his deeds at Cair Andros. But others, particularly some who sat upon the council, and counted their heirs among the greatest men of Gondor, looked at him suspiciously, for they saw little more than a man, not of Gondor, who entered their ranks at the Steward’s own reckless policies to welcome all who came to the realm to work against the enemy.

It was that eve when Aragorn and Ecthelion met again within the steward’s chambers. They sat across a table, and the steward drank from a tankard. He had shed his formal attire and wore a simple shirt, his hair down around his shoulders. The long day of business wore on his face, but as he drank, his cheeks reddened, but his mood did not become high. He spoke low, and leaned across the table toward Aragorn, though they seemed to be alone.

“Thorongil, for many weeks, I have suspected a growing cabal in Minas Tirith,” he said. The news shocked Aragorn, but Ecthelion held up his hand before Aragorn could speak. “Many whispers have reached me, and I believe with this recent attack upon Cair Andros, and the intelligence gathered by Alcaron in Pelargir, that it is clear to me the plot extends beyond the city.”

“Do you think Alcaron is involved?” Aragorn asked. “I did not see him today at the ceremony.”

Ecthelion shook his head, “I do not suspect Alcaron, and he was not present as I had sent word to him to travel to Anorien on business.”

“Alcaron is a proud man, but I do not see a traitor in him,” another voice said, suddenly, and Aragorn turned to see a younger man enter the room quietly. He looked remarkably alike to Ecthelion, but closer in age to Aragorn. His hair was dark and his chin wide, for he was tall and broad, and looked like a statue of the kings of old.

“Ah! Denethor!” Ecthelion said. “Thorongil, this is my son, Denethor.” Aragorn stood and bowed his head. “He has been uncovering this plot for some time, and I trust you and he will soon root it out.”

Denethor sat down at the table and looked at Aragorn closely. His eyes were piercing and Aragorn could sense in Denethor a profound wisdom and strength of will. After a brief moment, the son of the steward spoke again, “I have suspected all lords that sit upon my father’s council at one point or another,” he said. “But, most I have eliminated, and now is the time for Alcaron’s test. He was sent to Anorien, and while away from the city, we shall see what can be learned about the cabal that we believe lies in wait here.”

“What is your strategy?” Aragorn asked Denethor.

“I have a lead, but it requires some searching among Minas Tirith’s more unsavory corners. Though the white city glimmers in the sun, there are still many shadows within its levels. I fear that I cannot move among the lower levels and underworld without raising suspicion, and that is why you, as an outsider, would prove useful.” Denethor seemed to lay the word “outsider” upon the table like an accusation, but Aragorn did not let the remark make offense, and he answered with skill.

“Much experience do I have in the wide world of Eriador and Rhovanion to the North, and there I have been a ranger, for the sons of Elrond count me among their brothers. We have moved in silence, and slain many enemies. Such a task does not feel foreign to me, though the setting has changed,” Aragorn said.

“Ah, ranging and hunting orcs,” Denethor said. “Useful skills, indeed, but we do not need you to waylay some dimwitted servant of the enemy, but watch and listen to men whose lives have been spent in secrecy and deceit. That is why I will stay close to you, as you know not the intricacies of Gondor’s people.”

“I bow to your superior wisdom, where it indeed may lay,” Aragorn said. “Where shall we begin, and what is our aim?”

Denethor looked at him closely, and then at his father. Then, he spoke, “The Fourth Star, a tavern upon the city’s lower levels, which looks out over the northeastern plain. I have learned it is commonly used as a meeting place for some members of this cabal, who plot against my father.”

“It seems I shall serve Gondor inside taverns rather than the field,” Aragorn said with a low laugh. Ecthelion, however, nearly dropped his tankard and let out a hearty laugh. Denethor remained quiet.

“Such a time will come again, Thorongil,” Ecthelion said. “For now, this is how you serve Gondor best.”

“I shall do my part,” Aragorn said confidently, while Denethor looked upon him with suspicion.

—

It was late in the evening and Denethor stood silently at a darkened window within a turret overlooking the stone street, and across at The Fourth Star. The soft light of lanterns and the light from the tavern windows lay across the street. He thought of Thorongil, who sat somewhere within the tavern, and whether Ecthelion had chosen wisely. He told Thorongil of his man concealed within the underworld, one of many, who he often met with to learn information. He saw then two men appear below, passing under the stone building that formed an archway over the street. One he knew, but the other was not expected. Denethor rubbed his chin and thought for a moment, of Thorongil and of the unexpected change. Instead of leaving the turret, he stood still, and waited.

Within the Fourth Star, men filled many spaces from tables to the bar, spilling over into places where they could only stand against wooden columns in the middle of the large room. The sounds of laughter, arguments, and shouting, and the smoke from pipes and the fireplace along the left wall filled the room. Aragorn sat at a table alone, smoking his pipe, and he looked every bit the ranger that he was outside Gondor. He no longer wore his fair clothing, and his cuirass was hidden beneath a dirty, worn shirt. His hair was amess and he could not be picked out among any other patrons. His quick ears heard the sound of the bell that rang as people entered, and he looked to the door.

Two men entered there, one wearing a cloak of green, the other, black. The man wearing the green cloak had it brushed back behind his right shoulder, just as Denethor said. But Aragorn did not expect him to come with another. Their faces were hard and worn down by work, as were most in the tavern. They looked about the room, for companions, or something else, then proceeded to the bar. Aragorn’s table sat in a corner where the bar turned and met the wall to the right of the door. Without word, the barman waved two patrons away from seats at the end and the two men sat down. Aragorn watched them, and like seeking out the sound of soft footfalls in a forest, he listened closely.

“Is Denethor here?” The black-cloaked man whispered.

“I do not see him. Nor do I see any of his agents,” the other said.

“You said he meets you here, at this hour. Why would he delay, or not appear?” 

“He is the son of the Steward, I cannot speak to his comings and goings. Perhaps he was called to be elsewhere. He cannot always climb down from that tower to speak with me,” the green-cloaked figure said.

They waited and the barman brought drinks to them, and they drank silently for a time. Aragorn looked at them and waved away the servant boy who came to ask if he would like more to drink. Time passed, and the men spoke once more. “You said he would be here, yet here, he is not. You put us and our cause in danger, you fool. If he knows of you, then a trap could be laid,” the black-cloaked man said.

“Surely it would be sprung by now, if–” but Denethor’s man was cut off by his companion.

“Silence. Let us leave, and speak no more.”

Aragorn watched them as they drank, finishing their ale. He thought the conversation odd, but not unlike what Denethor had said. The black-cloaked figure was undoubtedly a member of whatever cabal the Steward sought out, but Denethor had not spoken of a second man. He wondered if more was at play. Aragorn puzzled why a man concealing his identity would speak so openly about his knowledge of Denethor and their meetings. Could the man be here to betray Denethor, finally succumbing to whatever threats or treasures offered him by those shadowy figures? The second man troubled Aragorn, and that Denethor also did not mention the man to him, gave him pause. The two men then stood and began to leave the tavern.

From his window outside, Denethor saw the two men leave, but walk down the street, away from him, in the opposite direction than that from which they came. And, as if a shadow passed by the tavern window, he thought he saw another man leave the tavern, following them. He watched for a moment as the two men walked further away, into darkness broken at times by small pools of lights from the lanterns. Denethor did not see Thorongil behind them, and the man did not come up to the turret to meet him. He wondered if this man of the North could move so skillfully, that he could not see him?

And so it was true, for Aragorn moved so deftly and silently among the shadows, following the two men like a hunter in the woods, though surrounded by stone. The street curved and the carved buildings rose up on his right, while to the left, the street ended in a wall, and then the sheer face of the stone that led down to the level below. The moon was high and bright, and Aragorn moved carefully, as the men did not speak, and no others were on the street.

The men suddenly turned into an alleyway and Aragorn found that it led between many buildings and at last emptied into a small market square. Aragorn stopped and stood in the shadow of a towered building, his shoulder to the stone, looking out upon the square. All was silent, and the wooden stands lay empty of goods. The moon broke through a cloud and shone down into the open space, and Aragorn heard footsteps approaching. He looked back down the alley and noticed a figure moving rather clumsily down the alley, though trying to remain hidden. Another sound caught his ear, a dull thud and then quicker footsteps.

Quickly, he turned back to the square and ran out into the moonlight where he found the green-cloaked man lying, his eyes staring up at the night sky. Aragorn knelt beside him and saw a knife lying beneath his body. Then, the figure who had been coming down the alley revealed himself to be Denethor, and he walked quickly into the square, but stopped short of Aragorn.

“What have you done?” Denethor asked sharply.

“I have done nothing, but it appears your man lost his cover, and his life,” Aragorn said.

“Stand away from him!” Denethor commanded. Aragorn stood and looked at him, but he did not fear him. “I find you here alone, and my man lies dead. What did you learn in the tavern?”

“Very little, but I hoped by following them I could learn more,” Aragorn said.

“Yet I did not see you following them, nor did I see you leave the tavern,” Denethor protested.

“Your eyes are not accustomed to the movements of elves, nor the men of the North,” said Aragorn.

“Yes, you who have come here under a strange fate, who just happened to intercept Alcaron in Pelargir, and earn the favor of my father,” Denethor said. “Just what is your purpose here?”

Aragorn saw that Denethor held one hand on the hilt of an ornate blade at his waste, a small knife concealed beneath his robes. “If you delay me further, this lead will be lost,” Aragorn said. “With my skill, I can follow your man’s killer, still, but I must go quickly.”

“And I am to let you take your leave to freely rendezvous with your companion? I think not.” Denethor said. “If the trail has gone cold, then it is by your hand, whether you slew this man or not.”

“My lord, there were many times for me to lay Gondor at the enemy’s feet, if I so wished. But no servant of the enemy am I, and no enemy of Gondor,” Aragorn pleaded.

“And such an agent of the enemy would surely be skilled enough to lead his hunter off the scent. If only for now, you shall have your leave, but I will be swiftly behind,” Denethor begrudgingly said.

“Do not delay me, then, and do not tread upon the trail that I now seek!” Aragorn said, returning to the ground and looking about the body. He stopped and looked away in a direction toward another alley off the square, one that led into the dark, toward the mountain itself, and the great back wall of the level on which they stood. “This way,” he said.

The two of them headed into the alley, with Aragorn ahead. He stooped low to the ground at times and stepped left and right as if avoiding things Denethor could never see. At last they came to the end of the alley, between two high buildings carved directly from the mountain. The wall rose high above them, and they looked up and then down again. Aragorn felt the cold stone and ran his hands along the wall.

“This is a dead end,” Denethor said, his voice suddenly sounding alarmed.

“No, there is more here than meets the eye. He came this way, but somehow, his trail is now unclear,” Aragorn said quietly.

Denethor looked around and up at the darkened windows of the buildings on either side. An archway led through one to the right and a small passageway followed the wall, connecting to many other alleys and streets. “Well, either he, or you have led us astray.”

Aragorn did not pay attention to Denethor’s remark, but kept searching the stone wall and the ground and the buildings around them. At last he came upon a strange sight on their left, where many baskets and sacks lay atop one another. But he saw that some were disturbed, and indeed he knelt low to the ground and saw that the stone was scratched and his fingers followed the light marks in the stone. He felt behind the bundles and rapped lightly on a wooden door, for it echoed within the tunnel behind.

“We have picked up the trail again,” he said with a smile. He felt more between the baskets and at last on the left side, found a metal ring and pulled upon it. With a heavy grating he pulled back the stone on which the bags and baskets sat. The wooden door came with them as the whole facade moved as one and slid across the stone floor. “Follow behind,” Aragorn said to Denethor.

He stood sideways and passed into the dark tunnel with his right hand feeling the other side of the wooden door. Another ring hung there, and with Denethor inside, Aragorn pulled on the ring and the door shut behind them, leaving them in utter darkness. Denethor must have turned, searching out with his hand, for he reached and found Aragorn next to him.

“Do not move. I have some sight in the dark, as soon as my eyes become accustomed,” Aragorn said in a faint whisper. And indeed after a few moments, Aragorn could at least see the wall on his right and he felt along with one hand, as Denethor did the same behind him. But after a few paces, Aragorn stopped abruptly, and Denethor clattered into him, for he could not see, even directly in front of his face. “A torch lies here,” Aragorn whispered.

He knelt down and found a torch of iron on the floor and he picked it up so softly that it made no sound in the tunnel. But to use the torch would eliminate all chance of secrecy, and Aragorn knew it to be too late for such hope. They had found a secret passage used by their quarry, and all that mattered now was to catch up to him. Aragorn produced a flint from his belt and he could feel the torch had not lay there for too long, for there was a little fuel left. He struck his flint and ignited the torch, and quickly the tunnel was filled with dancing orange light.

Denethor shielded his eyes from the sudden sparks of the flint and the glow of the torch. “This is a strange tunnel,” he said. “I know of many passageways at all levels of Minas Tirith, but never have I seen such a roughly hewn path as this. It was either made hastily, or with little skill.”

“Indeed, or made long ago, when the city was first raised. I have seen tunnels of this kind, deep in Khazad-dum. Though this one contains little evil compared to that place, it chills my heart, as the resemblance is too great.”

They continued on as the tunnel came to roughly carved stairs and passed down into the mountain where the air became cool. The stairs were wet and narrow and Aragorn held himself carefully with one hand on the wall. As they descended further, the passage opened and the stairs at last ended into not another tunnel or chamber carved by Men, but a natural cave. Candles sat about on the rocks that rose from the floor and above their heads the stone was white and jutted down from the ceiling like many jagged teeth. Water dripped into small pools around their feet and they felt a wind blowing through the cavern. Passageways split off from the chamber in three directions.

“We have descended down to the roots of Mindolluin,” Denethor said. “I could not guess how far such caverns go, we could be lost if we are not careful.”

“Aye, and it seems the trail has gone cold, but I will look around and see what secrets the mountain can reveal to me.”

Aragorn walked around the chamber as Denethor stood against the wall near the stairs. Bent low to the ground, he held the torch over his head and felt the cold stone with his hands. He could see where feet recently disturbed the wet, slick surface of the stone and soon he began to follow them, for they seemed to pace, before turning toward one passage, the one away to their left.

“This way,” he said, leading Denethor down the passage.

Their torch burned low, but many small candles lined the passage, sitting among mounds of wax that dripped down the stone, a sign that someone had been using the cavern for many months or years. The passage was wide and the roof arched overhead, and Denethor walked beside Aragorn, but cautiously. Aragorn could sense the unease within the steward’s son.

The passage came to a bend and a new cavern opened up high above them, and their footsteps echoed. Aragorn held the torch aloft and saw carvings upon the wall and markings painted in white. There were carvings of ships, and elvish letters, and in red, he saw circles with a mark down the center. “What do you make of these, Denethor? Are they markings of Gondor’s past?”

Denethor looked at them closely, “These ships, it looks as if there is an image upon the sails. Ah! Here, this one is clearer. A swan, indeed. Ships of Dol Amroth, at the Bay of Belfalas. They sail with swans upon their ships. But, strange to find their markings here. It could simply be from ages past, and mean little.”

“That would be my hope,” said Aragorn. “But I do not think we can arrive at that, yet. These others puzzle me, too. I can read these elvish letters, though some are aged and chipped away. This word here appears to be ‘jewel’, but I cannot make out more.”

“Hm. And I see these red markings. Much newer they are, and painted on the wall. Strange, they appear as an eye, perhaps, of some creature. I have never seen such before. A serpent eye?”

“That is a good guess, or the eye of orcs, which resemble that of serpents, or other creatures,” Aragorn said. “A sign of them in league with orcs, or other servants of the Enemy?”

“A possibility. Here is another elvish word, what do you make of it?”

Aragorn looked at the wall where Denethor stood and then stood in thought, “I believe, ‘helm’ perhaps, though I cannot be sure. The tongue and letters are old, and some words have not passed down through the ages to us.”

“These are strange clues, and only point to signs of men being here. I fear we are making little headway,” Denethor said, his shoulders dropping.

“We may be approaching the lair of these dissidents! I feel we are closer now, than we were before, and though the night has not gone our way, this is a fair sign,” Aragorn said.

“Has not gone our way, you say? You mean the man who lies dead in the market? Do not think I have forgotten him, for his name was Dolloron.”

“I did not intend to diminish his sacrifice. Do you still think me a part of this conspiracy? For I could not prove it to you more that only the good of Gondor is in my heart,” Aragorn said.

Denethor faced him, “My father welcomes all who would serve Gondor. And that calls many to our borders, and many who would do us harm may take it as an opportunity to deceive us! I would see us be vigilant against those who come claiming friendship, when little do we know of their true nature.”

“Such suspicion may be wise, but I do not think it fair to judge men thusly.”

“A luxury for you, perhaps, but we in Gondor can only depend upon our own valor, and our own wisdom, for we face the enemy’s lands and safeguard those behind and abroad.”

“I do not doubt the valor of Gondor, for I have seen it firsthand in the forests of Ithilien, and upon the walls of Cair Andros,” Aragorn said. “But that many would seek to come here, and aid you, is a cause to celebrate, for the Free Peoples stand together, still. And suspicion amongst them would only strengthen the enemy.”

“You would have us welcome all, and not ask questions of them?”

“I think your father shows wisdom, and trust, which is repaid in kind. And such doubts you cast upon him make me wonder about your own wisdom,” Aragorn said.

“You think so little of me, do you? Could you betray your own father?” Denethor’s eyes flamed, and in the light of the torch, Aragorn could see his temper.

“My father has passed, and I did not know him. But ever his memory and that of his fathers weighs upon me. I think daily whether by action or inaction, have I betrayed him and his, for I think back to those who ruled Arnor, and how they fell into ruin. Those are my memories, and they are my fathers, and though I am but a ranger in the North, I cannot rebuild that kingdom, and here I wish to at least prevent the fall of another.”

Aragorn despaired, and his face was full of doubt and worry. He regretted his decision to meet Denethor’s doubt and suspicion with his own. He had fallen into the trap of strife among his kindred, and he began to doubt his own wisdom. Elrond told him that he had much still to learn about the hearts of men, and though he found strength, valor, and kindness in the men of Ithilien and Cair Andros, here, in Minas Tirith, he was plunged into a web of deceit and suspicion. Though, he knew that such things were to be found elsewhere in the world. He despaired that his errand had taken him directly into such dark places beneath a bright veneer.

“Forgive me, Thorongil,” Denethor at last said. “ My trust comes at a high price and I hold those at length who do not come from Gondor. Though, there is wickedness even among my own people. That is why I must remain vigilant, and protect my father at all costs, for even here there are those who would offer poisoned counsels if they could hold his ear, and would work to see him fall. And there are many who would come to aid us claiming to be that which they are not.”

“I understand,” Aragorn said softly. “I cannot assure you beyond my word, which does not carry as much weight here, as it would in Imladris. Though, I will continue to serve with honor, and hope to pay the price to earn your trust.”

“We shall see! Let us go, Thorongil. We are still upon the trail, and I do not wish to delay further.”

“Indeed.” Aragorn stood and collected himself, taking one last look at the symbols upon the wall. Then, he turned and followed the cavern further.

The walls closed in slowly as the cavern became more cramped until it ended at last at more stairs, this time, branching into multiple paths. Denethor paused as Aragorn stopped, and Denethor allowed him to search the ground as he had done before. The stairs began in roughly cut holes in the walls, barely large enough for a man of Aragorn’s height. He examined the wet ground and held the torch aloft inside the openings to the stairs, examining the first few steps of each one. He looked back to Denethor and motioned for him to come closer.

“This way,” Aragorn said. “I can still see fresh mud from the cave, it was upon his boots, and he left it here upon the stairs. Otherwise, they are clean and wet. This is his trail, make no mistake. These stairs climb up, so we may be returning to another part of the city.”

“Then let us continue. Though, I cannot guess where we may emerge,” said Denethor.

Aragorn squeezed into the opening first, his head and shoulders stooped to avoid the ceiling. Denethor followed. As they climbed the air became thick and foul, and they were soon struggling to breathe, and Denethor covered his face. Aragorn pressed on until he came to an opening in the rock, and with a careful leap, he emerged from the stairwell and splashed into a puddle of water and muck. He was still within a tunnel of stone, but this one more carefully carved into a large circle. Holding the torch up and looking in both directions, he determined where they were as Denethor came out of the hole behind him.

“This stench,” Denethor said. “This must be a sewer. They have carved through the tunnel to create these secret passages to the roots of the mountain.”

“Indeed, but I am afraid with this tunnel, and the water at our ankles, the trail is lost, for I cannot track his footprints or signs upon the ground now,” Aragorn lamented.

“Ah, I think you have done the best you could to this point, Thorongil,” Denethor said, rather cheerfully, surprising Aragorn. “Let us pick a direction and simply find a way out. I do not wish to stay in such a foul place for long.”

“Daylight we might find,” Aragorn said. “Though I cannot tell how long we followed the trail beneath the city.”

Their journey continued and picking a direction, they walked off to the right of the stairwell, and proceeded at a comfortable pace. They both seemed to accept that the trail had gone cold, though Aragorn showed little sign of his grief at losing the traitor. Denethor did not seem displeased, either, and his mood improved. Aragorn thought it a strange turn for until now Denethor was willing to follow his lead, but hostile to the idea of Aragorn’s presence, and knowledge. If Denethor was somehow in league with the underworlders, then losing the dissident’s trail would please him. But Aragorn still could not let himself commit fully to such a line of thought. For though Denethor was stern and doubtful, his loyalty to his father and Gondor did not outwardly waver. Though, he did disapprove of his father’s call for those beyond Gondor’s borders to come to their aid.

“So, Thorongil, you grew up in Imladris, yes?” Denethor asked.

“I did, since I was a small child. After my father was slain by orcs, my mother and I fled to Imladris, for Elrond welcomes those men who are descended from the Dunedain of Arnor.”

“I am well-versed in the lore of Gondor; I study it daily, but I know less of the realm of Arnor, or at least, what remains of those realms that fell amid kinstrife,” Denethor said.

“It is a wild place now, and we are little but rangers in the wild, wandering about, with little to call our own. I have spent only a small time with my people, and many still dwell in the ruins of Annuminas. But for my time, I grew up among the sons of Elrond, and I view Elrond as close as I have to a father.”

“You are quite skilled in the hunt, and such a change of scenery seems to have barely lessened your skill.”

“I did not know what to expect when I set out from the Fourth Star to trail the men, for I have never been in such a place. But it appears men leave many signs, even upon stone, that those with the skill to see them may detect.”

“Look! A light ahead,” Denethor called. Indeed, the tunnel grew brighter, and Aragorn tossed the torch to the ground, for it had nearly burned its fuel. They quickened their pace and came to the end of the tunnel, where a large metal disc was sitting upon the ground, leaned against the opening.

Aragorn could see that it had not merely rusted and fell from its place, but had been aided by tools to break it free, and it now covered but a small part of the opening. The water ran out into a bsin in the stone below the opening, and it flowed away, down further through the city’s sewer system. Aragorn leapt over the metal cover and landed in the alley as Denethor climbed down. The morning sun was just rising in the east, the alley was still bathed in a pale, blue light, which grew brighter at its end.

“Dawn is upon us. Come, I will get our bearings out on that street,” Denethor said, and this time he took the lead. He emerged into a street and looked up and around, then looked out to the south, his hand covering his eyes.

But, with his back turned to the alley, Aragorn saw a shadow appear upon the ground. He quickened his pace and shouted, “Denethor!” At that moment, the man they had trailed sprang from a doorway, knife in hand. But Aragorn reached him first, and as he did, he tackled the dissident, the knife clattering to the cobbled street. Denethor spun on his heel, and saw Aragorn struggling upon the ground with the man.

Aragorn struck the man, and grasped him, rolling onto his back and holding the man around the neck and pinning an arm. But as the man writhed and struggled, Denethor reached for the fallen knife and strode quickly toward them. “No, Denethor, wait!” Aragorn cried. But Denethor drove the knife into the dissident’s chest. The man struggled no more, and Aragorn released his hold upon the body.

“What? He would have killed us, surely,” Denethor said, breathing heavily.

Aragorn stood and looked down at the body. “He was beaten. Now, we will learn little from him. He came from this doorway. I would like to have a look inside.” He stepped over the man and went to the door where the man had been lying in wait. The wooden door hung partially open and Aragorn looked within cautiously before entering. It was a storehouse, but largely empty. The ceiling was high and lanterns were lit upon stone columns that separated the room into chambers. He paced around the room while Denethor stood in the opening, leaning upon the doorframe.

Aragorn disappeared into the chambers and Denethor at last decided to follow. He walked through two chambers and the storehouse seemed to continue on, but when he rounded a corner, he entered into a lit room full of sacks, chests, and baskets. Shelves lined the walls and men stood around a table. Staring at them stood Aragorn, and all held blades in their hands.

“What is this?” Denethor asked.

“Ah, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, at last,” said an aged man, who stood behind the table. Though the room was lit by many lanterns and candles, it seemed as if his face remained somehow shadowed. “We’ve led you here, to your doom.”

“And should I know you?” Denethor growled.

The aged man spoke sweetly, with a grandfatherly voice, but beneath it, Aragorn could sense his true venom. He stood on edge and Narsil felt restless in his hand. “I fear this is the man we seek, for he appears to be no brigand, but that who commands their leashes,” Aragorn said.

The old man laughed, “What do you know, stranger? But days past you were little more than an errand boy.”

“Enough of this. Name yourself, so that we may record your deaths and that of your plot in our records. Little more will become of you than such scribbles upon paper!” Denethor cried.

“Fool! I am but a servant. The Hand of Castamir, if you will. For long have I strove within Minas Tirith, and our victory is nigh. A scribble upon your records, you say? Such shall you be but a tear in your father’s eye, as he grieves your death. Our counsel will be a soothing melody to him in his hour of need. Though, you shall not live to see his ruin!”

The men who stood with the aged man strode forward menacingly. Aragorn stood ready, and he spoke to Denethor without turning. “Arm yourself. For they, or we will leave here alive, no more.” And Denethor drew his knife from his belt and it was then that he saw the lanterns’ light glisten on the broken blade in Aragorn’s hand. He looked upon it strangely, and wondered how such a man could fight with a blade of that sort.

But Denethor soon knew. For Aragorn moved within the group and crossed with many of them, and was light on his feet. Denethor could not penetrate their dance, and he stood dumbfounded on the periphery. Aragorn kicked one of the men who stumbled back, and Denethor lunged, plunging his knife into the man’s back. The brigand fell to the floor and Aragorn slew two at once, leaving just three. Aragorn backed away and stepped over one of the fallen underworlders. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Denethor, and he picked up a curved knife from the floor, wielding it in his left hand with Narsil in his right.

“Kill them!” The aged man hissed, and he backed away from the table, a bundle in his hands.

“Do not let him escape, Denethor!” Aragorn cried. “These three are mine.” Denethor paused for a moment before moving toward the table. The three brigands looked his way but Aragorn cried out and rushed toward them. He caught them flat-footed and with Narsil and the knife in his other hand, they had little to parry his blows or slow his movement. Like his brother, Elrohir, he moved like the wind, and fell the three quickly. Leaving the knife within one of them, and Narsil was wet and dark with their blood.

“Thorongil!” Denethor shouted. “Come quick.”

Aragorn ran to the back of the chamber and there he found Denethor standing with his own blade in hand, but it was still shining. The aged man sat against the wall, his breathing labored, but a cackle still under his breath. Aragorn saw a knife in his chest. “What happened?” Aragorn asked Denethor.

“He took his own life, for I moved on him, and he backed away, and said we should not take him alive,” Denethor said.

The aged man laughed, and Aragorn could see that he was old, indeed, his nose pointed and crooked, and small wisps of white hair clinging to his bare head. “‘Tis better to die by my own hand than to bring failure to my masters’ feet.”

“And who would that be?” Denethor asked. The old man did little but laugh and let out his last breath.

“The Hand of Castamir,” Aragorn said, thinking out loud. “What did he mean by that?”

Denethor looked up, putting his knife away. “Castamir, ah, that is the meaning of those markings upon the wall! The name is old, and it refers to Castamir the Usurper, who, more than one thousand years ago, overtook the throne.”

“So it would make sense that these men harkened back to him, for they sought to depose your father,” Aragorn said.

“Perhaps. Castamir was of noble birth, and Captain of Ships in Pelargir. He led an open rebellion against Eldacar, whose mother was of lesser stock; from Rhovanion, and the lords of Gondor saw her son as not fit for the throne. He lay siege to the city of Osgiliath, and slaughtered many. It was a dark day for our people.”

Aragorn rubbed his chin. “Hmm. This is a dire warning. Surely this is no coincidence. Could rebellion be on the horizon?”

Denethor looked at him and scoffed, “Nonsense! Some do not favor my father, sure, but he is deemed a wise and loving Steward by the people. It would go ill for any who openly marched against him. Only a secretive cabal such as this could pose a threat. And it seems we have snuffed them out.”

“I hope it to be true,” Aragorn said, kneeling before the old man, whose skin was white and he saw the fragility of his frame. He looked within the bundle that lay next to him, and there found scraps of paper, scrolls, and other trinkets. “Look here, this appears to be a seal, but a strange symbol is upon it, like those we saw on the wall in the caves.”

The gilded metal seal was old, and Denethor turned it over in his hands. The symbol indeed looked like the eye of a serpent, but flames seemed to be around it. Aragorn drew yet another piece from the satchel, but this time it was a scroll, and he opened it, looking upon a skillfully drawn map.

“This is Minas Tirith, and the outerlands,” Denethor said.

“But it looks to show their secretive passages,” Aragorn noted. “These lines here travel in odd places, and do not follow many of the streets.”

“A great clue this is,” Denethor rejoiced. “We should use this in the coming days to seek out any pockets remaining of their kind! I will gather soldiers, and we shall sweep these tunnels and drive them out.”

“A wise course of action. With their leader dead, they may scatter.”

“Let us hope this man was at their head, for he spoke of other masters, and that troubles me, still.”


	13. In the Glade of Cleansing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorongil and Denethor have discovered a mysterious cabal of men with nefarious purposes in Minas Tirith. But, their numbers are unknown, and the city guards and Denethor continue to seek them out, while Thorongil, and two soldiers in his charge, watch the northern roadway to the Rammas. As remnants of the traitorous cabal attempt to flee the city in secret, Thorongil and his companions set out after them, north, toward the Druadan Forest.

“A Captain of Gondor, he is,” said Glamren, a slender soldier of Gondor, clad in dark leather and a grey cloak.

“Aye, and barely a phase of the moon, for I heard nothing of ‘im until we were called by Lord Denethor,” his companion said, rather grimly.

“Surely, Caradol, you heard of what he did at Cair Andros,” Glamren said. “Not to mention he saved a lord’s neck in Pelargir. By any account, that will get you a seat in the high levels.”

Caradol, a broad-chested man with reddish hair and a beard flecked with grey, snorted, “Stories is all. You know those men in Ithilien talk a lot when they come back here. Think we have it all easy. Everything is all, Mumaks and great snarling wargs.”

“I never seen a Mumak. Though, I suppose I never want to, if half of what they say is true,” Glamren said.

Aragorn paid little attention to the two men who sat upon the grass behind him, down a gentle slope while he lay belly down on the turf, eyes just over the top of the hill. The sun was falling behind Mindolluin and less than a week had passed since he and Denethor encountered the so-called Hand of Castamir; the shadowy figure still held some grip over the Steward’s son, and they had spent the better part of the days and nights since, searching for those who were in league with him. The map they found led them to many small nooks and storehouses that held supplies and stolen wares. But many still seemed to slip past them, as if the news had spread quickly among their kind that the Knights of Minas Tirith came for them. And as the hounds dug in through one hole, the rabbits sprang from another.

His eyes were fixed upon the outer wall of Minas Tirith, looming black and glistening wet. The shadow of the mountain lay across the city and the outer hills like a soft shroud, and it stretched ever further across the Pelennor. The wall met the mountain and the foothills tumbled from the finely-carved face, but some small culverts and drainage holes were in the rock there, and they poured out from the mountain and joined with the natural soft-trickling springs that welled up in the high passes and fell down among the hills into the gently rolling land and finally the flat plains. Their map had shown them clearly, and now Aragorn waited.

“If half of what they say is true, then every man in Ithilien has slayed a Mumak,” Caradol huffed.

“Silence,” Aragorn hissed, turning his head back to the men, who looked up at him as scolded children. He turned back and saw shadowy figures with his keen eyes, moving out of a cleft in the rock and among the boulders. Down a hill they slinked, until at last they came to a grove and there joined other companions, who emerged from the darkness, shielded by thickets and trees. Five of them were there, now.

Glamren rather clumsily crawled up the slope beside Aragorn and peeked over himself, but little could he see in the dimming light. He squinted and carelessly lifted his head higher, but Aragorn gripped his arm with a firm hand and Glamren caught himself, and lowered back down. “What do you see?”

“Five men. Three emerged from the tunnel exit; two others waited in the brush.”

“What did he say?” Caradol called in barely a whisper.

Glamren turned back his head to his companion, “He says five men.”

“Five against three? Are we to slay them or capture them?” Caradol said.

At this Aragorn turned back as well, “Are you concerned with their numbers, my friend? It should be no problem at all, for they have no Mumak.” His face, often grim and serious, lightened with a smile and Caradol huffed and did not answer.

“What are we to do, my lord?” Glamren asked. “Should we intercept them?”

“No, I would like to see where they may lead us. For there are exits and entrances to Minas Tirith that your lords and knights cannot all monitor. Perhaps, if they carry us to the den, then we may at once root out the pack for good.”

“Just the three of us?” Glamren asked worriedly.

“Let us follow them, and I shall consider our course of action upon the road.” Aragorn nodded his head and Glamren slid away and walked down the slope to Caradol to inform him of their captain’s decision.

The two of them stood and rushed back quickly to a grove where three horses grazed peacefully and freely. The two men greeted the horses and lifted the reins over their heads, led them out from below the trees and across a small green space between the trees and a tall hedge. The North-way ran along the hills and up to the Forannest, or the northern gate of the Rammas Echor. The road climbed and dipped as it traversed hills and wound through great groves and orchards. Brooks ran down from the mountain and arched bridges passed over them. Glamren and Caradol led the horses to the hedge and waited there.

Aragorn watched as the shadowy men mounted their own steeds and turned them away from the city and casually trotted to the road. From his point he could see down the road a ways, and the men emerged from the brush onto the road and trotted northwards. Should any men greet them at the gate, none would view them with suspicion. He waited a while before standing freely and walking down the slope to where Glamren and Caradol held the horses.

“Should we be quick on them?” Caradol asked.

“No, we will stay back a ways, as I do not want to alert them. And we will not follow the road, at least until we come to the north gate. That will keep us out of their sight,” Aragorn said. He climbed upon a great sorrel steed and ran his hand softly along its neck. The other men mounted as well and gripped the reins. Aragorn spoke softly to his mount and the soldiers of Gondor could not understand his words, but they knew he spoke in the Elven tongue. They looked at one another strangely. “Let us go,” Aragorn said at last.

His steed softly led them over fields and hills, across rippling brooks and beneath fragrant orchards. Aragorn rarely told the horse where to tread, as his eyes were focused upon the road and his ear bent to the sounds around them. He could hear the far away voices of the men ahead and the hoofbeats of their horses upon the road, which was partially cobbled, with earth and overgrown grasses covering it here and there.

They rode into the evening and night fully lay on the land when they arrived at the Rammas Echor. The wall rose above the trees ahead and it was then, in sight of the wall, that Aragorn reined in his steed and stopped in the dark, the road on his left. The wild trees gave way to bare turf before the wall and he saw the men on their horses sitting before the gate beneath the lantern light. The gate opened in a great arch beneath the wall, with windows above, brightly lit and a wispy smoke streaming from a chimney in the wall. Men walked to and fro, or stood upon the wall looking north, or leaning over the parapet to look down at the men below.

With a clang and the grinding of gears and the creak of wood, the gate opened and the soldiers of Gondor waved the men on, and they spurred their horses into a gallop, through the gate and out into the night. As the soldiers began to close the gate, Aragorn clicked his tongue and his steed trotted out of the dark towards the road and he softly called, “Ho, there!”

The soldiers at the gate stood fast and looked out to see Aragorn, Glamren, and Caradol approaching, and they recognized the garb of their brethren. The guards at the gate greeted them warmly and Aragorn spoke to them quietly. “Well met, friends. Those men who you let through the gate, what was their business?”

The soldier before him looked at his fellows and then back to Aragorn, “They did not say, my lord. And we did not question them. It is common for people to come to and fro through the gate, traveling to Anorien.”

“That was their road? To Anorien, you say?” Aragorn turned to Glamren and Caradol, “Well, their direction we know, lest they sought to deceive the gate’s keepers.”

“Certainly a possibility,” Caradol said.

“In any case, hold the gate open a moment for us to pass through, for we are on their trail, but we go quietly,” Aragorn said to the guard.

“Are they enemies?” The guard asked, a look of dark worry passing over his face, fearful that he had failed in his duty, either by complacence or misplaced trust.

“Enemies, or simply brigands, we have not determined, for we must overtake them or follow them to the end of their path to find the truth,” Aragorn said. “But do not fear, my friend. As you said, many pass through the gates of the Rammas Echor, and your vigilance has not failed. If you had known their ill intent, to hinder them would have thus hindered us in our mission.”

“I wish you luck then, in your hunt!”

The guard stood aside and Aragorn, Glamren, and Caradol passed through the gate and followed the road to keep to their quarry’s tracks. The road was empty, and it seemed that not only did Aragorn’s eyes guide them, but also the sharp senses of his steed. They had been upon the road for little more than an hour when Aragorn stopped them and, dismounting, he looked around on the road and saw the rushed and heavy prints of hooves and they broke away from the road and headed down into a ditch and the pine woods beyond.

“They left the road,” Aragorn called as Glamren and Caradol held their horses up next to him. “Remain here and keep your eyes sharp. Do not let your guard down. I fear they intend to waylay us.”

He quickly vanished into the dark, following the hooves that tore up the grass and undergrowth, signs that perhaps only he could follow in this realm. He moved swiftly and remained close to the pines, hiding himself against their trunks. But his fears were proven true as he saw ahead the horses of their quarry tied to trees, tightly together. He lay a hand upon the hilt of Narsil at his waist, and as he listened, he heard footsteps approaching, crunching on the leaves and needles beneath them. A better skilled foe may have startled him, but he stood firm, waiting for his pursuer to draw nearer.

In a rush, he heard the shrill swipe of a blade unsheathed and the footsteps became heavy and quick. In one swift motion he turned and Narsil flew from his waist and with his strength, it clashed against the blade of his foe and knocked it from his hand. Aragorn cried loudly to his companions, “To arms! Glamren! Caradol!”

The unarmed brigand attempted to tackle Aragorn, but he could do little but grip Aragorn’s limbs and they struggled as the brigand held his sword hand aloft. Aragorn heard the quick footsteps of another and saw a glistening knife blade coming for him, but as he turned and wheeled the brigand toward the new attacker, the dull beating of onrushing horses thundered and he saw Glamren and Caradol burst through the trees and Glamren’s veteran steed crashed into the oncoming brigand and trampled him to the turf. Caradol rode swiftly by and cut down the man who held Aragorn at bay. Now free from the struggle, Aragorn looked back to the horses tied together and saw among them panicked men, and the horses nervously stamped and the men climbed atop and wheeled them round and flew.

“Glamren, Caradol! Fly! Keep on them; I shall follow!” Aragorn cried.

“Aye, Thorongil!” Caradol answered, and he spun his horse back and broke off in a great rush after the three brigands as they raced north. Glamren, too, kicked his horse and the steed pinned back its ears and crashed through the woods in haste behind Caradol.

Aragorn sheathed Narsil and ran back to the road, letting out a high whistle and he ran across the ditch and up the road with his long strides and his sorrel steed rode up alongside so that neither had to break their speed and Aragorn deftly climbed aboard and they sprang away after the others.

\--

They raced through the night and the steeds of Gondor were in full spirit, for they flew at great speeds and their muscles glistened with sweat and their nostrils flared. Glamren and Caradol drove them hard, but knew their limits and did not test them. Aragorn let his run at its own will, and it carried him easily, and the hooves beat upon the road like a great rhythmic drumming that went straight to Aragorn’s heart.

He saw Glamren and Caradol ahead through the mist of the early dawn. And, further ahead but beyond his sight, the brigands and bandits kept the pace. But, as the sun crept ever higher in the east, and the road was bathed in orange light and still mists in the shadows, the brigands turned west and off the road, speeding through forests of oaks and into a thin valley, and though Glamren and Caradol gave chase, at mid-morning they pulled their horses to an abrupt halt in wide bowl surrounded by sloping hills and a great thick forest forming the north border of the valley to their right..

Aragorn came upon them and halted though the horse stirred under him, displeased that the chase had been interrupted. “Why do you halt, now?” He asked, looking ahead as their quarry passed beneath the shadow of the northern trees. Glamren and Caradol looked shaken and fearful.

“That is the Druadan Forest. We do not vention into those woods,” Glamren said.

“The Druadan? I have heard nothing of this place. Why do you avoid it?” Aragorn asked.

“It is a haunted, my lord. Either some dark power dwells there, or the trees themselves have no love for men. Those who enter do not come out again,” Caradol said.

“They venture into those woods, perhaps to escape our pursuit, knowing you would not follow,” Aragorn said.

“That matters little, it is also said that savages live among the trees. Ancient men and their dark spirits, neither care for our purpose, and will only seek our end,” Caradol said.

“Have you been there, Caradol? Have you seen these spirits or ancient savages yourself?” Aragorn asked.

“Well, no, but stories tell much of their ways, and they have dwelt within these trees since ancient days.”

“Stories, you say? Such as those out of Ithilien, which you were so swift to dismiss? Perhaps this land is not as you believe, and only those who bring evil with them, encounter evil in the Druadan Forest. Come! We must not delay further. We enter the forest, and we bring no ill will, for our purpose is just.”

Aragorn commanded his horse forward and it sprang across the dell, though he slowed it short of the trees, and as Glamren and Caradol rode up behind, they slowly entered beneath the shadowed canopy. With Aragorn leading, he bent forward in his saddle and looked upon the ground to see the broken twigs and verdant floor disturbed by swift hooves. This trail he followed for some time, and his steed carried him thoughtfully, avoiding tree and branch, allowing him to keep his eyes upon the trail.

“Captain of Gondor you say,” Caradol whispered. “If he’d been a captain for longer, he’d know our journey is folly. He has led us to doom.”

“Ever you speak ill of him! Though we venture where few dare to tread, he may be right. I fear the stories as much as you, but I will follow my captain, for that is our lot,” Glamren answered.

“Your captain, you say? You know less of him than you know of this place. But, I will not abandon you to this folly.”

The forest grew dense and the trail became harder to follow on horseback, for though their steeds were sure and skilled, thick undergrowth and fallen trunks covered in soft green moss blocked many passages. Aragorn dismounted and continued on foot, brushing aside ferns and horsetails to seek the trail beneath them.

“Thorongil, sire, it appears our horses can little traverse this land, perhaps our quarry abandoned theirs?” Glamren called out as his horse backed away from a fallen tree, unwilling to make the leap.

“Right you may be, for the trail is difficult to find in this undergrowth. I will find it better on foot. Let us leave them be, and they would find the road home easy,” Aragorn said. And they set about unpacking their supplies from their saddlebags and taking what they could upon their own backs. They had little food save for a few handy rations, but Aragorn wondered whether they would pursue the brigands through the forest for that long. He feared the hunt was up, and he would have to return to Minas Tirith with little to report to Ecthelion, or Denethor.

He held his horse’s reins gently and whispered to it as it turned its head and walked back toward the edge of the forest. The three men stood there as Aragorn’s steed led the other two back to the dell and they would find their way to Minas Tirith again. Aragorn turned aside and pushed through the greenery, bending down to and fro and searching. Caradol and Glamren followed behind, and they walked for many hours, unsure of whether Thorongil led them smartly, or if they merely wandered aimlessly.

“The light is fading,” Caradol said at length. “Not only do I fear we are losing what little light we have, but a growing dread has been on me for these past few hours.”

“What do you mean?” Glamren laughed as his comrade had suddenly become fearful.

“I cannot see it, but I feel as if others are watching us as we pass.”

“He is not wrong,” Aragorn suddenly said, interrupting them. “For I have seen their signs as well.”

“Whose signs?” Glamren asked.

“Men who live in these woods; an ancient people. Their tracks are like little I have seen in the world, and as difficult to see as elves. It appears they traverse the trees and branches, as well as walk upon the ground.”

“They are following us?!” Caradol drew his bright blade. “They seek to ambush us!”

“Nay! Stay your hand, Caradol. They watch us, yes, but for now, I do not think their intent is to harm us,” Aragorn said.

“Night falls, and soon, they may be upon us,” Caradol said, taking little heed of Aragorn’s counsel.

Aragorn sighed and continued onward, though which direction he walked became difficult to tell. The light indeed faded, and rays of pink and orange light spread through the thick canopy overhead, and the shadows spread about their feet and the air grew thick. Aragorn walked in the gathering dark with little to guide him, and at last he relented. He halted and ahead saw a fair glade, but with it, felt a strange power there, and so he remained under the cover of the trees, and they set about building a fire and clearing room to sit and sleep. A small fire was kindled and it did little to provide warmth, but its light danced among the leaves and Aragorn sat back against a mossy stone while Caradol and Glamren sat on the other side, reluctant to let down their guard. Caradol volunteered for the first watch of the night, though he did so out of a fear of sleep than anything else, and he sat up, his eyes constantly searching, while Aragorn fell off for the night, and Glamren hung his head to his chest.

Sometime later in the depths of night, Aragorn awoke to a shout, “Caradol! Caradol!” He stood up swiftly and saw beyond the dim firelight that Glamren wandered in the shadowed wood, frantically calling out his lost companion’s name. “Glamren! What has happened?” Aragorn called.

“I woke to relieve Caradol of his watch, but he was not to be found!” Glamren said, coming back to the fire. Pain and dread were in his eyes and his hands shook.

“Stay calm, we shall find him. Stay here, and I will look for signs of his passage,” Aragorn said. He left the camp and paced circles that slowly grew wider around them, bending low and feeling the trunks of trees, looking up among the branches. Above them, and through the canopy, he saw the silver light of stars overhead. As he moved among the trees, he saw upon some low branches where hands rubbed them free of bark, and though they did not scar the trees, he could see clearly that many had used the branches for a handhold. He searched the ground and there on the ground found Caradol’s blade, dried with dark blood, though no blood of an orc.

He saw that he had come near the glade, and Glamren came to where he stood. The soldier saw Caradol’s sword in the undergrowth and he fell back on the ground and feared the worst. “Do not yet despair Glamren! His sword had found its mark upon some foe, and it was no orc. Our quarry may yet be out there and they may have lured Caradol away. But, I also see signs among the trees, and do not think those brigands deft enough to move high among them. Something else may be at work here.”

“The forest spirits have taken him!” Glamren said.

“Let us not jump to some dark spirit yet,” Aragorn said. “There is a glade ahead, and though I feared it contained some power, I did not perceive it to be an evil. There is an ancient power here, and none like any you or I have known. It may simply be defending itself, for we know not who struck first, Caradol, or those who came upon him.”

“We must find him quickly!” Glamren said, rising to his feet.

Aragorn searched the area more, “Indeed, there are heavy footprints all around, and it appears a struggle ensued. I detect many separate prints, all coming from different directions. These here must be Caradol’s for they come in the same direction as we; these here surround him, and it appeared these brigands did indeed wait for us. But something came upon them that none expected. These must be the hands in the trees. And here, is blood upon the fern,” Aragorn knelt and smelled the plant surface and suddenly pulled back. “There is a strange, pungent smell to it, like that of poison.”

“Do you know where they went, Thorongil?” Glamren asked.

“Yes, this way, there is a clumsy trail off in this direction, for those who went this way did so hurriedly, and it seems they dragged something through the brush along with them.”

Aragorn and Glamren followed the roughly stamped trail, and Aragorn clearly saw further marks in the bush and grass beneath of something dragged. They followed it round the glade, and for some time as the night slowly gave way. The air was red with the morning and the mists beneath the trees were slow to burn away. Still, Aragorn followed, and wet dew dripped from every leaf and began to soak them through, and the trail became overgrown, yet in places fresh mud could be seen recently disturbed.

After a time, Aragorn stopped and bending low, looked ahead through leafy fronds at another glade, but this one appeared different, for he could see dark shapes lying upon the ground. He approached cautiously, and Glamren held tight his sword hilt. At the edge of the trees, Aragorn saw more clearly that the trail burst through nearby and the shapes he saw upon the ground were three bodies, and within them many arrows.

“It looks as if this is our quarry,” he said with a sigh. He broke through the trees and into the glade and found the first body lying on its belly, reaching out toward the others, with a broken arrow in its thigh and many in its back. Just ahead, two more lay with even more arrows, but the fletching was unfamiliar to him; not crude and black like orcs, yet not ornate and colorful as the elves. “The air is strange here, and these men lie in a stench, like that I smelled at the site of Caradol’s disappearance,” Aragorn said.

“Poisoned arrows; they must be!” Glamren said.

Aragorn nodded, “Indeed, this is the tale. Our quarry attempted to ambush Caradol, yet whoever let loose these arrows overwhelmed them all. One of these men, that one there, was hit with one before, and they dragged him as far as they could; and here they met their untimely end.”

“Let us hope the same fate does not befall us,” Glamren said. “Yet, this still does not tell us what happened to Caradol. Do you see any sign of him?”

“No, none others entered this glade, and none left,” Aragorn said gravely.

“Perhaps they captured him! We could return to the struggle and look for another trail.”

Before Aragorn could answer, he heard the soft, slow stretching of a bowstring, unheard by Glamren’s ears, and even almost imperceptible to his own. Aragorn did not move, and held his hands out at his sides, clearly away from his weapons. Glamren looked at him strangely and nearly spoke, but before he did, he started at the sound of far off drumming. The sound was a patter like heavy hands lightly on the drum skin. They knew at once that they were no orc drums, which boomed and rolled ominously. Yet, these were no less ominous to them, as they signaled that more than just one hunter approached them.

“Do not move, Glamren, and do not reach for your blade,” Aragorn whispered.

Silently, a figure emerged in the trees ahead, and then another, and yet more still. They bent at their knees and in the growing red day, they were hidden beneath strange shadows, yet their eyes burned bright. With flowing movements, two swung head over heels, somehow still gripping the branches upon which they sat, and reaching out with their large hands, they gripped lower branches and somersaulted onto their bare feet, softly upon the grass. They held bows in their hands and did not creep further toward Aragorn and Glamren, but stayed bent low to the ground.

Aragorn stood in a strange awe, for he looked upon men that he had never seen before. They were large and their limbs strong, yet they moved gracefully like lithe elves. Their faces were defined by strong bones and their noses were wide. By many standards of men and elves, they looked grim and unlovely, but Aragorn remarked at the strength of their clear muscles and the fair paintings of white and green upon their skin. The two before them did not speak, and the drumming continued.

Two more came up behind them suddenly, silently, and spears were thrust in their backs, but only with the intent of moving Aragorn and Glamren along. They walked with the strange men, and followed a footpath that suddenly seemed clear to Aragorn now that these men followed it effortlessly. They were led along into another glade, but this one still covered by sparse trees, with a dense ring of fern and fronds all around. There, the drumming was louder, though the drummers remained unseen. Ahead, Aragorn saw a large, rounded man, with a dark leafy garment about his waist and an ornate collar of leaves, sticks, and bones about his neck. He sat upon a stump, his legs thick and trees. Rings were pierced into his skin and in the morning light, his skin appeared pink, contrasted by the dark hair that fell off the sides and back of his head, which was clean upon the top like a bare hill emerging from the trees.

“Sit,” he commanded, as Aragorn and Glamren were brought before him. His voice was deep and guttural, yet he spoke the Common Speech. They did as they were commanded. “Men of stone houses come to Druedain wood. Three left in Glade of Cleansing; light out of eyes.”

“Those men we pursued,” Aragorn said calmly. “Our kindred they were not. They fled from us here, and we merely followed.”

The large man narrowed his dark eyes and looked at Aragorn, almost through him. “What of fourth man?”

“Caradol!” Glamren shouted suddenly. Aragorn held out a hand to Glamren to calm him, “That man is with us, and he was waylaid by our quarry,” Aragorn said.

“He struck Druedan, and we tied him. You speak for him?”

“I do, and I seek your forgiveness for his offense. I am Thorongil, and I come from the great North. I also knew not your ways, and his trespass is mine as well. I am the leader of our company, and it was by my hand that we entered your wood. We meant your people no harm,” Aragorn said.

Dru-buri-Dru lifted his large arm and from behind him, through the trees, two more of his kind approached, bringing Caradol with them. The soldier’s arms were tied behind his back, and a cloth was tied across his face so that he could not see. They set him on the grass and stood beside him.

“Man must be weighed. Dru speaks firm,” the Druedain chieftain spoke. He rubbed his pointed chin and thought for a time.

“And what does this require in your law?” Aragorn asked.

“If man defeat Dru, then Dru will show him the way out,” the chieftain said.

Caradol eyes widened and Glamren looked to Aragorn, who sat calmly in the grass. “If you grant me leave to fight for him, I will, for this man is in my charge, and I will answer for him, still.”

Dru-buri-Dru smiled a toothy grin, “Thorongil fight Dru, then.”

“Thorongil, you cannot!” Caradol cried out, standing abruptly. The wild men beside him stepped toward him with their hands gripping his shoulders like he was pressed between two stones.

“Be calm, Caradol. My doom does not lie here and now,” Aragorn said.

“No weapons,” said Dru-buri-Dru, and he stood in a wide stance and his arms spread out at his sides, waiting to grasp Aragorn within them.

Aragorn nodded and removed his belt and handed Narsil hesitantly to Glamren. “Do not unsheath that sword, Glamren,” he sternly said, and Glamren nodded and backed away.

Aragorn and Dru-buri-Dru circled one another, for Aragorn was unsure of the style of combat that these men practiced, though he ventured to guess that it would be some sort of grappling contest, and he knew not how to win, save to survive himself. Dru-buri-Dru’s eyes were narrow and focused and his wide lips curled into a smile. The drums about them beat swiftly and they quickened like a nervous heart. Dru stood shorter than Aragorn’s height, but he was considerably wider, and when the two met in a hurried rush, Aragorn nearly fell back, but the great hands of Dru gripped him like tree roots. The Druedan lifted him off the ground by the waist, a great hug, and Aragorn knew not what to do within the bounds of the rules. But he brought down his fists upon the chieftain’s head and the blow dazed Dru-buri-Dru enough for him to release Aragorn.

Catching his breath, Aragorn backed away and bent low, and Dru-buri-Dru came at him again, attempting to lift him once more, but Aragorn held back the wide hands and dug his feet into the earth, though the weight and rush of the Druedan nearly threw him on his back. But, in that stance, Aragorn saw his advantage, and let himself be overcome by the force of Dru-buri-dru’s weight. He fell backward, and pulled Dru-buri-dru with him, and with his long legs, catapulted the chieftain over him, and sent him head over heels, rolling onto the grass.

The wild men around them broke out in a strange and exuberant chanting and pounding on drums and grass. They grunted and hollered as Dru-buri-Dru stood, smiling. It seemed the ritual combat was ended, and the chieftain approached him and this time embraced him warmly, though with a grip no less powerful.

“Thorongil stronger than he look; he is free to pass,” Dru-buri-Dru said.

“Is that it?” Glamren remarked, behind Aragorn, looking at them stupidly.

“Thank you, Dru-buri-Dru. Your people will forever be well-regarded by me and my kin, the Dunedain. Never shall I pass the borders of your sacred lands again, and I shall protect them as ever I can,” Aragorn said, bowing low.

Dru-buri-Dru said little in reply to that, but he pointed away and said, “Passage out is east.”

Aragorn took his sword from Glamren and tightened his belt once more. Caradol came up to them, and looked at Aragorn, searching for something to say to him, though he could not come to them. He simply put a hand on his chest in the manner of Gondor and they spoke no more for many hours. Aragorn walked them out of the forest and the two soldiers passed behind him, ever keeping a wary eye on the way they came, for the sight of the Druedain still filled them with a strange fear.

“Look!” Glamren cried. “The peak of Eilenach! That is a small beacon, and is the only place our people dare tread within this forest. We are near to it.” And indeed a high sharp hill rose from the trees up on their left, and Aragorn could see through the bright day overhead that it rose up in stoney levels with grass and trees upon its knees, and a small guardhouse stood there, a wisp of smoke coming from its chimney. “There is a clear path from the road through the forest that leads up to the hill,” Glamren continued. “We can find our way out there!”

“Let us go then! By this path, lead us on,” said Aragorn.

The three of them ran swiftly and they came to a wide dirt pathway among the trees and it ran easily with only roots sticking from the earth to hinder them. The path ran between Eilenach and Amon Din, two great hills astride a wide dell that the forest stretched within. They came out of the forest at last toward the north, for Amon Din was high upon their right, and the sun was now high over them. They looked out upon the fair farmlands of Anorien, a land long and thin from east to west, and the road drove down its center.

“This is splendid land, Anorien; farmland,” Glamren said.

“It is quite pleasing to look upon,” said Aragorn. But, with his far sight, he looked across the plains and to the east, where the land lifted gently in small hillocks, “What is that there?”

“I see nothing but the haze of midday,” Caradol said, with his hand shielding his eyes.

“Nay, I see smoke, white and black, of fires extinguished, and those still burning,” cried Aragorn. “Let us fly to them! For trouble may be upon the fair people here!” And with that, they sprang away by foot, and Aragorn swiftly outpaced them.


	14. Smoke and Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorongil, Glamren, and Caradol escape the Druadan Forest, and to the east, smoke rises. The three fly across Anorien to find villages burned and pillaged by orcs. But, in small hamlet, many villagers have gathered to defend their homes, and among them, Lord Alcaron and his guard are there, to Aragorn's surprise. The three join with the Gondorian farmers to fend off an orc assault in the night.

Over gentle hills and plowed land they ran, with Aragorn in the van by many strides, his long legs carrying him lightly over bright green fields. The men of Gondor were hardy, but little time had they spent flying across the country by their own two feet. They huffed and endured the run silently, trying to keep pace with Thorongil, who to them, seemed to earn his name, eagle of Cair Andros, by speeding over the countryside as if on wings. He gave little heed to fences or hedges and scaled them all without a wasted moment. Any obstacles only led to Glamren and Caradol being further behind, until they saw his cloak filling with the wind behind him; wings of an eagle, indeed.

But, at last, over a small hill but two miles from the forested lands behind them, did Aragorn stop. He stood atop the mound and looked down upon a wide swathe of farmland, with small stone houses here and there, and many fences criss-crossing the lands. But, what may have been a fair place only a few days before, was now burned and ruined. The wood and thatched roofs were burned, collapsed upon their stone settings, and some burned, still. Man and beast alike lay dead across the yards and fields, and crops were torn, raked, and burned. With heavy footfalls and heavy gasps of air, Glamren and Caradol came up the hill behind, and paused there with him. Had they been full of breath, and not just ending a long flight, their breath would have been stolen from them by the sight of their kin.

“What ruin!” Glamren said amid gasps. “Men, women, and children, I see. All left dead and bare in the hot sun. Orcs only know such savagery.”

“Yes, orcs, but from whence did they come? So far within your bounds--,” Aragorn said. But Caradol cut him off at the thought.

“Surely the mighty defenders of Cair Andros have not fallen since your leaving,” he said.

“I think not. We have not been away for long, and would a host strong enough to overtake Cair Andros cross the river, they would surely be at the walls of your city by now,” Aragorn said.

“Perhaps this is some rearguard, left to ravage the townsfolk to inflict further wounds upon us?” said Glamren.

A flame arose in Aragorn’s heart and his fists were tight and his face hardened like stone and he yearned to cry out, but held his wrath within until there emerged some target. He gazed across the land and saw little movement, be it man or orc; only the black shapes of carrion birds hopped upon the ground, or roved silently overhead.

“Come, let us get a closer look. At the least, we do not wish to leave your kin as carrion upon the ground.” And, before the others could respond, he raced down the hill to the farmland, for his mood was aflame, and short was his temper.

When they came upon the farm, the smell of smoke and burning wood and grass, and the stench of hewn flesh were thick. Caradol knelt beside the body of an elder man lying face down on the earth, the grass around him dark and wet with his blood. Aragorn and Glamren looked around the stone house, and the bodies of a woman and child lay near. Dark birds sat upon the eaves of the stone above, unafraid of smoke or the new men who walked beneath them. Glamren lay his hand gently upon the back of the small boy and spoke softly to himself.

Aragorn looked away to the east, down a dirt road where it rose up to the crest of another hill, and then disappeared. He saw more smoke rising above the hill; but they could not venture forth yet, for Caradol and Glamren wished to lay the slain to rest. There were little tools at-hand, for the orcs had ravaged and collapsed the small barn, and anything that could be was broken and useless. So they lifted stone and wood from the shattered remains of the home and barn and built what mounds they could by hand, with each body lying next to the other. The day passed along and their backs ached as well as their hearts, and the sun beat upon their brows and backs.

By the time they had finished it was well into the evening and the sun was now drifting below the White Mountains and hills behind them. All the fair land seemed drenched in a foul light, red and darkening. The three men gathered their things once more and Aragorn led them off down the dirt road that passed beside a sweet smelling orchard, and it gladdened them for but a moment. As they passed the fair field and trees, they crested the hill and saw there below a hamlet; numerous buildings smoldering and wrecked.

“Look! I see folk moving about!” Glamren called.

“Indeed, this is a good sign, for it seems not all were lost,” said Aragorn.

They rushed down the road as dusk fell upon them. The once fair land was laid to waste, blackened with fires since extinguished, and some smoldering still. Had they come only a few days ere the orcs came, the hamlet would have been a sight of peace and beauty. Green fields and trees beside the road, while great golden mounds of straw stood as monuments to many days work. The homes were of simple wood and stone; thatched roofs and fair wisps of smoke coming from their chimneys as food was prepared.

But all peace and color seemed stolen away, as the houses stood crooked and broken. Thatched roofs lay all around and within the eaves below. Trails of thick black smoke still rose as some fires burned into the gathering dark. The great mounds of straw themselves were cast to the wind, spread across the field. But Aragorn and the others heard voices and shouting as they approached where the houses stood close together along the south side of the road. The buildings surrounded an open space, with a great stone cistern, and here, the hamlet’s people made their fortifications.

Aragorn, Caradol, and Glamren turned off the road and passed by the short fence of a house, with its gate hanging open by a solitary hinge. Rounding the corner they saw down a simple path between yet more homes, a great mass of detritus: barrels, beams, pieces of broken barns and homes, upturned wains, their wheels and chains scattered. The great haphazard wall stood across the street, and Aragorn saw men behind, and two men sitting upon the stoop of a still standing farmhouse. They talked among themselves and only noticed the three men approaching as they nearly passed by.

“Halt! Who comes hither as the night gathers?” One of them called, standing up swiftly.

“I am Thorongil, Captain in service of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, and Lord of Minas Tirith,” Aragorn said in a commanding voice that cowed the two men who stood watch, now shown clearly as little more than farmers, the hardy but innocent folk of Gondor. The two men looked at one another, unsure of what to say to such a man, as if their master had ill-prepared them to greet a friend.

“Thorongil?” A voice cried in searching hope, as if looking for a fair memory among such recent horrors. From behind the hasty fortification came another man, but this one looking fair and lordly, with his dark hair pulled back behind his ears, and his face darkened by soot and dirt. He wore a grey cloak lined with red, and Aragorn saw also fine leather and a pauldron upon his left shoulder.

Quickly the man recognized Aragorn. “Hope unlooked for! Thorongil! Indeed, it is you.” The man strode up to them and Aragorn realized that he looked upon Lord Alcaron, whom he met weeks prior in Pelargir.

“Lord Alcaron,” Aragorn bowed his head, and Caradol and Glamren did the same, their hands upon their chests. “I am pleased to see you again, though, no less surprised. How long have you been here, since our last meeting in Pelargir?”

“A week or more, I would say,” Alcaron said. “Fearing further attacks after your victory at Cair Andros, the Steward sent me to Anorien, to gather and inspect the levy. But, we were scarcely able to gather many before the orcs attacked.”

As they spoke, the folk of the hamlet and surrounding farms ventured out of doors and opened shuttered windows, as word of fair knights from Minas Tirith had come to aid them. Though glad they were to see Aragorn and his two companions, they murmured amongst themselves, So few have come?; These three are all the aid our lord sends?

“The orcs attacking farms troubles me greatly, for they have rove far into your lands,” Aragorn said. “Tell me what has happened here, and if you or these folk would be so kind as to provide food and water for myself and my men, for we have traveled a fair distance, and in little time.”

“Of course, come with me, and we shall take rest and speak quietly, though darkness descends, and I fear that soon another assault will be upon us.”

Alcaron led them away, around the barricade and into a wide barn, with straw lining the floor and tables and barrels set up within. Once filled with tools, livestock, and stores of food, the barn was now a guard house, and what tools the folk had were now weapons in their hands, pitchfork and scythe. Alcaron sat upon a barrel and bread and water were brought to Aragorn, Caradol, and Glamren. Fruits there were also, and some cheese, and the men took them gratefully and ate their fill as Alcaron spoke.

“North I came with four riders from Minas Tirith. We rode throughout the farmlands, issuing the Lord’s summons, and we rode across the eastern lands, even within sight of Cair Andros. We called men to rally at arms at Amon Din within the fortnight. But, not four or five days into our errand, we soon saw the savagery of the orcs on farmlands near the western bank. I sent one man to Cair Andros, yet he did not return.

“I rode here, with my other men, as we would surely see the levy coming down the road toward Amon Din, should any answer the summons. But, none came, and soon it was clear that orcs roamed the lands and were sacking villages and farms. Men stayed in their homes to defend themselves; we were attacked just last night, and though we held them at bay, it seemed only a small party. I fear the worst is awaiting us.”

“Indeed, they did not settle for your village here,” Caradol said. “We saw a farm not a mile away burned and the folk there dead, man, woman, and child.” Alcaron hung his head, his arms upon his knees.

“These are evil tidings, Alcaron. For I cannot see how a party of orcs could cross the river. When I was with Celador and Tiror, they assured me that no such crossing was possible, save for those the Rangers in Ithilien keep secret,” said Aragorn.

“Then such crossings they must have found, or slayed our brethren in Ithilien who guarded them,” Alcaron said.

“The force that attacked Cair Andros did pass over Anduin in rafts and other watercraft. I was upon the banks when they came ashore, and we drove them back, and set fire to their rafts and boats. Perhaps they had others and in their retreat, merely rallied for another sortie,” Aragorn said.

“That is to be determined in days to come, for night settles, and my men have done well to direct the villagers to protect themselves, and our number is strengthened! For surely the Eagle of Cair Andros shall not fall upon the grass of a simple hamlet. Far from here is your doom, I suspect,” said Alcaron, standing gladly and clapping a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder.

Aragorn wilted from the touch, from weariness or fear, he did not know. But Alcaron at least was right, for they strengthened the hamlet’s defense, and all must be done to protect the folk they could through the night. Aragorn stood and looked at Caradol and Glamren, “Go now and seek out Alcaron’s men, and find where we may be of use.”

“Aye!” Glamren said, and they stood and hurried away.

The village was quiet. The barricade was built so that it protected a wide arc from one house to another, walling off the cistern yard, and behind, stables and storehouses stood at their backs, where all now gathered. Women and children sat upon straw within the barns, and the men watched into the night, by the light of the moon and small burning torches upon the barricade.

Glamren and Caradol stood apart, and around each of them were a small handful of men and young lands. Farmers, farriers, and stable boys they were, and the soldiers attempted to rally their spirits, and each was in charge of a small company, now, defending their keep. Some guarded the stables, and Alcaron’s men were with them as well. Alcaron’s men did the same, and there were watchers in the stables, looking out over the land to the north, for though they had a strong defense in front, there were ways to attack from all sides, if the orcs proved numerous.

Aragorn stood calm and silent, and several of the townsfolk looked upon him like a graven image in the far off white city that existed to them, largely, within their own imaginations. For he looked lesser in age than Alcaron, but he was lordly, and he carried around him an air of wisdom. They whispered about him in the night, though none spoke to him directly.

Over the quiet whispers and the soft wind blowing, they heard a sharp shrill cry in the dark. A babe cried behind in the stable. Men sat up alarmed, and Aragorn’s eyes narrowed to the hills to the south, and upon those once fair green slopes, dark shapes massed and broke over their crests and small torches were among them, and the sounds of orc cries and calls carried on the wind.

“They are coming!” Aragorn cried out, and he drew not Narsil, but held a stout spear in his hands, for a faint but powerful call in the back of his mind bid him to keep the blade sheathed until the uttermost need.

He could not count their numbers, but their snarls and cries were numerous, and they raced across the fields and over the broken fences and the road, a teeming rush of darkness. Not all ran down the small lane between the houses toward the barricade, but many tossed their torches through windows or upon roofs, and Aragorn recognized their works from Cair Andros. Orc arsonists howled as fires lit within the dark windows of the homes around them. Though, all were empty save the stables and storehouses around the cistern.

Many came upon the barricade and broke upon it, though some leapt atop the crude wall, and screaming in vile speech, came down among the farmers, who leapt back in fear, save a few stout fellows who thrust at the orcs with their pitchforks. Some orc bodies piled up, others simply laughed and broke the staves of their attackers, swinging their scimitars and cutting down farmers and young boys like wheat in a field. But Aragorn came there swiftly, and with his spear, he drove it through two orcs, driving one before impaling the other. And as they squirmed upon the pike, Caradol came there in a fury and hew the heads off the orcs with one great stroke of his blade.

But their foes were not yet cowed. Orcs with broad blades in one hand and lit torches in the other crashed upon the barricade and the wood burst alight as the defenders stood back from it. Some overtook the barricade and orcs clad in dark and marked plate came upon them. They rushed at the defending farmers but Glamren and one of Alcaron’s men met the marauding orcs and drove them to the ground, and smote them together.

“Hold firm!” Aragorn cried, “Douse these flames!” He pointed to the wide section of the barricade now licked by red flames and free farmers rushed from the cistern with buckets; back and forth they ran until the flames were awash and a thick grey smoke filled the air.

Aragorn heard a cry behind and the clashing of swords and the crash of scattered debris as he turned and looked between the stable and a farmhouse, where orcs rushed through the small space between, trampling the dead bodies of farmers and one of Alcaron’s men. The new foes tossed fresh flames at the barricade and within the stable, and Aragorn rushed toward them as he saw Alcaron away to his right, shouting at his company and pointing to the orcs at their backs.

All was noise and fire, smoke and ruin. For the open space surrounding the cistern became a frightful battleground, as the orcs came in. A score of them breached the defenses and the villagers panicked and they ran this way and that. Some fled into the stable and with horse blankets, attempted to smother the flames upon the straw, but they were harassed by the murderous orcs who saw the defenseless within, thirsty for the blood of Gondor.

But as the orcs fanned inside the yard, Aragorn threw his spear with a mighty effort, and it felled an orc of great size, tossing it upon its back, piercing through its plate-covered chest. Thus, he was unarmed, and the battle swirled around him, and his thoughts became a haze; his eyes burned with smoke, but his heart was aflame as the men, women, and children of the village cried out in sorrowful gasps, their numbers dwindling. He stood upon the stone cistern and with a heavy hand he swung Narsil from its sheath, and like a great blazing brand, the broken blade shone bright against the moon and fire all around.

“Harken to me, foes of Gondor! See now Thorongil; Eagle of Cair Andros, Captain of Ecthelion, Dunedan of Arnor!” His voice broke clear through the din as if a herald blew upon a great horn and all who were there looked upon him, a great shape rising before the fire among the barricade behind, and his blade shimmered as if it too were lit with fire. The orcs seemed stricken dumb by his display, and their gaze turned long enough for the men of the hamlet to rally behind Aragorn and the cistern, as Alcaron strode up behind him as well, his face black and bloodied.

“Send forth your vile captain, the one who drives you cruelly so! For you war with children, and seek not the valiant, for their hearts surely would drive you to ruin!” Aragorn cried. The orcs looked about and cowered as one pushed through them, a dark shape, green beneath black armor upon its chest and shoulders. A great pelt was on its back and upon its belt were skulls of men and beasts. In his right hand he held a jagged blade, and in the other, the severed head of an elder man, face frozen in fear. The orc captain strode forward defiantly and tossed the head at Aragorn’s feet.

“Here am I, Ghulat,” he snarled, his long tongue licking across his teeth and lips.

“Then, your doom is now at hand!” said Aragorn, and the band of men, numbering little more than ten, now, at his back cried out in triumph; and the orcs behind Ghulat sneered. Alcaron looked up at Aragorn in amazement, for he had seen his prowess in a scuffle among the patrons of the Leaping Fish, but then he knew not that he had met a proud captain with bold words and deeds. And he saw that Aragorn held a broken sword, though not shattered from the battle at hand, but ancient it seemed, and he thought he saw upon the blade carven runes, and he looked at it with wonder and suspicion.

“Kill them!” Ghulat hissed and his orcs ran forth. Aragorn leapt from the cistern and past the onrushing orcs, who clashed behind him with Glamren, Caradol, Alcaron, and those who stood with them. Aragorn saw Ghulat, only, and with a great rush and shout he swung Narsil at his foe, but their blades crossed, and Ghulat’s great strength became clear.

The orc captain stood tall and wide and with his free arm he knocked Aragorn back. But Aragorn faltered only a moment and was prepared for the next assault; he parried and with a swift hand, he drew the knife from his belt and thrust it into Ghulat’s sword arm as it was held up in lock with Narsil. Ghulat shrieked and Aragorn stepped just outside a blow from the orc’s other arm; and now free from the orc captain’s weight, Aragorn came forward again and Narsil hewed Ghulat’s arm off just below the elbow. The captain’s jagged sword fell into the dirt, hand still clasped upon the hilt. Ghulat fell to his knees and roared, holding his hewn arm, but Aragorn brought Narsil down upon his head and the captain fell silent.

The orcs wailed and cowered in fear at the sight of their fallen captain. Though they had slain many, they broke and ran in many directions. The makeshift fortifications became a pen that hemmed in the remaining orcs, for they frantically searched for exits while Glamren, Caradol, and the villagers pursued them. Some fled over the burning barricade, or back through the stable, and Caradol rallied men to his side and they ran after them, in pursuit until no orc remained living. And Aragorn sat upon the cistern, his heart beating and his arms and body sore. He looked around the yard and saw many dead: women and children, and the men who tried to defend their homes. Aragorn wept in the deep night.

—

The morning dawned red and every heart in the village was heavy. The villagers and those who lived in the farmlands around sat together and they comforted one another, for their losses were great. The hamlet smoldered as the barricade was broken into many fragments, burnt and black, wet and smoking. Fires had been put out in the early hours of the morning, yet some of the houses suffered. Caradol and Glamren aided the villagers in arraying the dead, and a great mound was lifted outside the hamlet for their bodies, and they were laid to rest with reverence.

The noon hour was quiet and the townsfolk sat and ate together. In the afternoon they went to work dismantling the barricade and sifting through the jetsam to save what was not touched by flame or broken in battle. As the day dragged on, Caradol and Glamren looked to Aragorn for what they would do next, but he was weary, and the loss of the townsfolk weighed heavily on him. He would not abandon them yet, and the three stayed another night, and then, after a second day, they sat with Alcaron and took counsel together.

“I should stay until my rider returns,” Alcaron said. He had sent his remaining guard to the hinterlands and spread the news of the orcs’ defeat, and Alcaron intended to still call the levy to Amon Din. “But, your orders were not with this errand, and you should return to Minas Tirith and report to the Steward what you know of the conspirators’ and the demise of the orcs here.”

Aragorn was quiet, but Glamren and Caradol looked at one another and spoke freely. “Do you feel men will answer the muster, with their homes being in such recent danger?” asked Caradol.

“The Lord Ecthelion feared new assaults upon our border since Cair Andros, and the raids by these orcs add only more reason for the people to muster, now,” Alcaron said.

“To ask so much of these simple folk who have lost,” Glamren said in despair.

“All live to serve our lord,” Alcaron responded sternly. “Those who are called must answer, lest their honor and life be in question.”

At last Aragorn spoke, “From Cair Andros to Minas Tirith, and all fair lands between, I fear a cloud is falling upon Gondor. Enemies are circling, and I feel that Alcaron is right in wishing to call the levy. Though I cannot begrudge those who defend their homes, for Gondor’s need is not yet dire. But, we here must decide what to do ourselves; for me, I wish to stay until your man returns, bearing what news he may have gathered.”

“I will follow my Captain,” Caradol said, looking to Aragorn. “Aye,” answered Glamren.

Alcaron looked at the three of them and searched their faces, and he remarked that in such a short time, it seemed some men of Gondor had begun to look to Thorongil as their brethren and were eager to follow him, from Cair Andros to Minas Tirith, indeed. He rubbed his darkened chin and at length spoke again. “Perhaps you should stay, Thorongil. These men look to you, and indeed the townsfolk here owe you a great debt. Your presence may inspire those to rally and join the weapontake, if you ask it of them.”

Aragorn considered this, but he hesitated to agree, for he felt called by his duty to Ecthelion, and the errand of the cabal in Minas Tirith, for Denethor awaited news of their fate. And to ask the people to assemble their arms while they laid to rest their neighbors, seemed to him a grievous request. But, Alcaron alone among them held authority in the absence of the Steward and Aragorn weighed his counsel carefully.

“I will do as you suggest, Alcaron,” Aragorn said. “For though I wish to return to Minas Tirith and report to Ecthelion, there is more that can be done here. I do not want to abandon these folk, and if I can aid them further, then I will.”

Alcaron smiled and the answer pleased him, though he could not be sure whether Aragorn agreed willingly, or out of a sense of duty. The men with him, though, would follow him. They broke their counsel and awaited the return of Alcaron’s rider. It was a day before he returned, and in the early morning, Aragorn, Glamren, Caradol, Alcaron, and his rider prepared to depart the hamlet for Amon Din.

The villagers provided them with horses, and as Aragorn stood beside the saddle upon his mount, a woman and child approached him. She was fair and hardened, for she was now a widow, whose husband fell to the orcs; and the small boy at her side had still red cheeks, and his eyes were downcast, but he tried to straighten his back and show not his pain. “My lord,” she spoke softly as they stood beside him. The boy held in his hands a parcel, wrapped in rugged cloth. “We wish to repay you, as best we can,” she said, and the boy handed up the bound cloth to him.

As he took it, and unwrapped the cloth, he saw a fair material there concealed, and rolled up, and he unfurled it in his hands, and the sight shook him like no fearful battle or vengeful orc had yet in his life. For he held a bright banner, green as the fields and farms around them, and white, and blue. And at its broad end was a great bird, and eagle, and the bright sun. Aragorn wavered, and his heart stirred.

His voice shook. “Rarely have I received such a fair gift,” he said. “Though I call the elves, in a way, my kin, such beauty and skill would rival that in Rivendell.” The woman blushed and the young boy looked up proudly at Aragorn, his face full of light again. Aragorn touched his curly hair, and smiled. He bowed low to the woman and with care, wrapped up the banner lightly again, and concealed it beneath its cloth covering until he should affix it properly. He mounted his steed and looked back to them and he appeared as a great knight, the likes of which they had never before seen.

“Should I ride to war, again, for Gondor, I shall carry this and the spirit of Anorien will ride with me, and the enemy will lament my coming and fly from me,” he said.

They rode on, southwards, and they crossed the great road and ahead, a great rocky hill rose above all others, silent and watchful. Amon Din towered above the green and wooded fields around it, and the Druadan Forest lay to its west. Upon its knees to the east were heavy thickets, grey and shadowed. And Aragorn could see atop the rocky promontory a dark shape and a humble housing for the beacon guards.

“Amon Din is the oldest of Gondor’s beacons, and it has long looked over the lowlands from here to Anduin, and even to Cair Andros and North Ithilien,” Alcaron said to him as they approached.

Below the hill and in its deepening shadow, they saw many tents and horses, and men gathered together around fires. And there was a tent, larger than all others, that stood at the center. Alcaron lifted in his saddle and his face broke into a wide smile. “Many have come! We shall hold a council tonight, before we ride to Minas Tirith.”

The five riders entered the camp, and those at guard deferred to Alcaron, and looked up at Aragorn in wonder, and waved to Glamren and Caradol, being more near to them in standing. They dismounted and were shown to tents where they could rest and feast, and as the sun slowly fell behind the mountains, there were but a few hours before Alcaron would call the council together.

Aragorn wished only to rest, and his sleep was disquieted by dreams and memories. He dreamt of that day only years past, but that still felt near, when Elrond and his mother delivered unto him the heirlooms of his house, and the truth of his lineage. And though the Ring of Barahir and the Sword that was Broken passed to him, there was yet one artifact that Elrond withheld. For Elrond said to him, “With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The Sceptre of Annuminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.” And when Aragorn awoke, he dwelt on those words, and the test that Elrond spoke of, and the earning of the Sceptre, which was held long by the Kings of Arnor.

But as he sat upon his bedding in the small tent, he remembered then another happening, for on that far off evening, as he walked under the setting sun, he sang, and his heart was gladdened by the Lay of Luthien. Then, he saw there the fair daughter of Elrond, Arwen Undomiel, and the thought of her now filled him with love and hope. And such were those early days of truth, where questions and doubt were mingled with bright hope, and the love of those around him.

“Lord Thorongil,” a voice said softly from outside his tent flap. “Lord Alcaron calls a meeting.”

“I shall come at once,” he responded, and he stood and took nothing with him from his tent, for he had shed his cuirass and greaves and only the sword of Elendil hung at his side, for he dared not leave it unwatched.

Within the great tent, many men stood about, and there was a fire in the center, smoke rising up through a hole in the tent above. Many talked amongst themselves, and the tent was full of many voices, but Alcaron and a select few talked together near the fire. Though the men around him were no lords, nor captains, they marshalled men from their own towns, villages, and homesteads, and thus, spoke for the groups that now rallied together beneath the beacon hill. Glamren and Caradol saw Aragorn enter and greeted him, but they mingled with the soldiers and common folk, as Aragorn left to join Alcaron.

“Ah, Thorongil,” Alcaron said as he approached. “I am just hearing reports of those who have come, and I am pleased with the muster. Nearly three hundred are here. A fine weapontake for this land. We are now discussing our ride on the morrow.”

“To Minas Tirith?” Aragorn said.

“Nay, for I have received new word from Ecthelion!” Alcaron said. “Let me deliver it now to the company at hand, and we shall all consider it together.”

Then, one of the men blew a light call upon his horn, and the men quieted and turned to look upon them in the center. Alcaron stood, holding a scroll, a message from Ecthelion. “Men of Gondor, I am Alcaron, and am sent by his Lordship Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, to raise your levy in response to growing threats upon our eastern lands. You know of the victory at Cair Andros little more than a fortnight past; and many of you have defended your hearths from roving orcs in recent nights.

“We now stand at a call to arms, for Ecthelion has called for us to marshal at the Rammas, for we join the levy of the Pelennor, and Knights of Minas Tirith, to ride across the river and make an assault upon Osgiliath! The defeat of the enemy at Cair Andros was not the final stroke, for more have come to Osgiliath, and the eastern shore is under threat again,” said Alcaron. The tent filled again with many men’s voices, as they spoke to one another about such a move.

“We should ride at the coming of the sun!” One voice called above the rest.

“Aye, it is in my mind to ride at once, though I am no soldier or captain,” Alcaron said, humbly. “Who among you would ride at the head of such a force?” And the room was quiet, and all men looked around, for there was none who stood forward, all thinking that Alcaron would lead them, being a high lord.

Alcaron looked around and finally at Aragorn, and there was a strange light in Alcaron’s eyes, and a smile on his face. But Aragorn was reluctant, and he remembered the words of Elrond of years past, for in his heart, he knew the time was not now to stand above and speak his claim. He looked at Alcaron, but did not stir. No others came forth.

At length, a familiar voice called out, Glamren, who rode with Aragorn from Minas Tirith. “Lord Thorongil shall lead us thither!” Aragorn looked at once at the soldier, who wilted under his gaze for a moment, like a child speaking out of turn. But, his conviction shone through, and he stepped to the center of the tent. “Many of you here do not know him, and I and my companion, Caradol, have ridden with him for only a short time. But we know of his deeds, for he has already won renown in Gondor! He saved Lord Alcaron’s life in Pelargir,” Glamren said.

Alcaron stood tall and nodded, “Aye, it is true, for he came to me solely of his own heart, and did not know me when he preserved my life.”

“And, many of you know him as the Eagle of Cair Andros! For he stood upon the battlements of that fortress and repelled the enemy, and the lord Tiror called him his friend and ally,” Glamren continued. “For these deeds, the Lord Ecthelion named him a Captain of Gondor; the only Captain now, here among us.”

Many men rang out in a chorus, “Aye!” and it seemed to Aragorn that he could not refuse the summons, now. He looked at Glamren reluctantly, and the soldier was bright and full of hope and strength. Alcaron came to Aragorn and put an arm around him and they stood out together by the fire in the center of the tent and all the men gazed upon Aragorn at last, knowing now his station and valor.

“It was not my intent to stand before you,” Aragorn said. “For I am only here by the Steward’s leave, for I came out of the far North, from Rivendell. But I am descended from the remnants of the Northern Kingdom, and that in a way, makes us kindred, through a long count of years. If this be your will, then I shall answer, and only ride at your head by your leave.”

Then, all men in the tent rang out “Aye!” and they sang his name, and Alcaron clapped his hands and saw that Aragorn could not conceal his mirth beneath a veil of humility or regret for long. Men greeted him happily, and Glamren and Caradol introduced others to him, and they came to know him as best they could. They accepted him on the word of Ecthelion, who named him Captain, and upon the word of another, who like them, held little station in Gondor, but served greater masters. And if Thorongil be a worthy Captain to Glamren, son of Glamrenor, then those men now mustered from the farmland of Anorien would follow him.

The following morning, all arose with the sun, and Aragorn emerged from his tent in full stride and heart. His cuirass was fairly polished and the hardened leather shone anew. He wore his blue cloak, clasped at his shoulder by the fair elven star brooch. He had taken new clothes from the store that men gathered in the muster, and he felt renewed. All men, mounted or on foot, gathered with sword and spear, shield, and bow, and formed up in companies as Alcaron and Aragorn, as well as Glamren and Caradol, readied at their head. Climbing into the saddle, Aragorn looked back to the north at the throng of men there, and then away, far into the misty morning, he thought of home. Glamren mounted beside him, and a great smile was upon his face, for he held in his hand a great wooden pole, and upon it, unfurled in the wind, was the banner made for Aragorn by the townsfolk whom they had saved. Aragorn looked up at the green and blue and white banner, flapping in the wind, and the sun caught behind it, shining through. Glamren carried it, and the banner of the Stewards, white tree upon black, rode on the other side of Aragorn, carried by Alcaron’s last rider.

Thus, the host departed Amon Din to a great horn call from the beacon guards upon the hill, and they waved as the host marched past, a great column of men. They marched around the hill, and to the east, passing the grey thickets on the right, they came to the road. Then, they turned right and south, following the road past the Grey Wood, which would at last bring them to the Rammas Echor, and there, Aragorn intended to halt at the North-gate for a time, sending word ahead into the City of their coming. And as they marched, Alcaron looked upon Aragorn and the banner that flew above his head, and wondered.


	15. The Shadow of Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and the muster of Anorien arrive at the Rammas, and then ride eastward to rally at the Causeway Forts. The host gathered there marches into Osgiliath and Aragorn and his men take up their post around the ruined King's Library. In the night, the assault upon the city is fierce.

Before the Rammas, Aragorn and the host out of Anorien gathered, bivouacked upon the side of the road, while Lord Alcaron and his rider galloped through the North-gate and across the Pelennor to the White City. Alcaron’s rider rode ahead as a herald of his coming, and he would call to the guards at the gate, and in the high citadel, that Alcaron had come with news, and that he sought audience with Denethor and Ecthelion. Thus, the high lords of Minas Tirith were waiting for him, when Alcaron arrived at the sixth level, and there left his steed in a stable, and strode the rest of the way up to the last, high point in the city.

Beneath the Tower of Ecthelion, the three lords gathered together and Alcaron reported all that he had seen and heard in Anorien. He told the Steward, and Denethor, also, of the ravaging orcs, and the waste to homes and crops; and of the dear loss of life. But, he also told of Aragorn’s victory and the death of Ghulat, the orc captain. With the tale completed, he then recounted the weapontake.

“Fine work, Alcaron,” Ecthelion said kindly. “Though the countryside has suffered, you have done well to hearten them, and bring them forth.”

“No, my lord, it was Thorongil who did thus; I merely advised, for there was little sway I could hold over such plain folk, being not a soldier,” said Alcaron. “Men in his charge spoke for him, I believe he who called Thorongil to lead was Glamren, son of Glamrenor. Thorongil, himself, seemed reluctant.”

Alcaron paced to and fro as he spoke, and with a hand upon his chin, as if he was deep in thought to recount the exact events in the village in Anorien, and the muster at Amon Din. And then he stopped and held up his finger and his face was curious, “And there was an odd happening before we departed the village, for a woman made and gave to him a banner, and Glamren carried it from Amon Din. A banner of white and green and blue, with an eagle upon it, for the men at Cair Andros called him the Eagle of Cair Andros.”

“He flies his own banner?” Denethor exclaimed. “Thorongil at the Rammas with three hundred men at arms, under his own banner. My lord, I must say--,”

“No, you must not,” Ecthelion interrupted, and he waved his hand dismissively. “Thorongil carried a banner that some common folk made for him in gratitude for saving their lives. A fine gesture, and Thorongil bearing it signals little more than showing them his gladness at receiving the gift. Did you, Alcaron, see him unfurl it?”

“No, my lord. I only saw Glamren bear it upon our leaving,” Alcaron answered.

“Then if there be more to learn of this, we should speak to this man, Glamren. But, there is no more to say of it now.” Ecthelion thought and he held the white rod of the Steward in one hand and gently tapped it upon the other as he sat in his chair, below the throne. Denethor and Alcaron stood patiently. At length the Steward spoke, “Send word back to Thorongil that his company should ride to the Causeway Forts, and there, will be sent out to strengthen Osgiliath. I thank you, Lord Alcaron, for you have done well in this service. No more will I ask of you and you may return to your home in the city.”

Alcaron bowed low and turned to leave the great hall, his footsteps echoing upon the white stone floor, and the guards at the door opened them and when he was gone and the chamber was quiet once more, Ecthelion stood and walked around, while Denethor followed. “Thorongil at the head of three hundred men? Father, that is a considerable host from that outland,” said Denethor.

“And, what is your meaning?”

“In a short time he has rallied considerable favor, from Tiror at Cair Andros to the common folk of Anorien. He has come out of the North and is marshalling power quickly, and he has uncommon sway, it seems, over many,” said Denethor.

“What would you have me do?” said Ecthelion.

“I just deem that you would be more cautious with men from afar who you are so willing to let into our service,” Denethor responded. “Do those who follow Thorongil come to our aid, or his?”

“Ever you seek out those who would do us harm, even among those at our right hand. Perhaps your vigilance will one day serve you well, in darker days. But, today, while the Sun is still bright, I would have you look to those fair qualities in Men, and the valor that may make Gondor strong under your rule,” Ecthelion said. Denethor looked at his father, and though they were often at odds, he sought wisdom always in his father’s words, and now, he softened and took his words to heart.

Ecthelion stood from his chair and put his hands upon Denethor’s shoulders. “You will someday need the aid of those who you may distrust today; and do not seek such aid by threat or call to duty, but earn it through goodwill.”

“Forgive me, father. I look for the shadow that lies over men’s hearts too quickly, for I am ever in fear for Gondor. There is always much for me to learn, and I shall look to you for wisdom. Gondor stands tall and proud, and you have strengthened her beyond measure,” said Denethor.

Ecthelion put his arm around Denethor and as they walked out of the great hall, the Steward said, “Tall and proud, indeed, and rightly so; but pride brings its own shadow, where before there was none.” The two men walked between the tall, stone images of kings past, and though Ecthelion and Denethor held not the blood of Isildur, Elendil’s son, their line was no less proud and strong, and within it many great men held Gondor close to their breast.

Away at the Rammas, a rider galloped to the North-gate and trumpets sounded. A soldier emerged through the gate and there waited Aragorn, Glamren, and Caradol. The soldier spoke clearly the words of Ecthelion to Aragorn, and instructed them to ride south and east along the Rammas, until they came to the Causeway Forts. And Aragorn quickly mounted and called his men to readiness with horns across the field and beneath the woods. All stood and strode forward, or those who rode, did so in a column behind Aragorn and villagers who held some positions of authority within their own fields.

The column wound from the gate southwards, a long line of men that did not shine in the sun, with few clad in silver plate, or mail. Most wore leather or plain tunics, and few carried spears or wore helms. For those along the Rammas, they were a sight of plain men, but they marched proudly, and Aragorn rode at their head, straight and tall. Soon they took their noon meal upon the plain, and the sun was high and hot. But they did not pause long, and came at last across a few leagues, to the easternmost gate.

Two towers stood upon either side of the road, and its battlements were well-manned. Away to the column’s left, Aragorn saw the road stretching eastward and standing silently, the white and grey stone ruins of Osgiliath. The western bank was clear, across the plain, and nothing stirred within. But, as they approached the towers at the eastern gate of the Rammas, there was much movement and commotion; horns and shouts of men; beating hoofs and marching feet with the clattering of plate, mail, and shield.

Aragorn’s column came to halt, and he, Glamren and Caradol, rode forward to greet the watchers at the gate, and many men were gathered there, as the wall and field around the gate were busy with preparations for war. The men at the gate look strangely upon Aragorn and the banner that flapped in the wind above Glamren. But, there also flew the standard of the Stewards in the hands of other riders from Anorien, and the guards approached, gravely serious, but welcoming their own countrymen.

“Well met, kinfolk! What host is here assembled, for a strange banner flies beside our own,” one of the guards said.

Before Aragorn could answer, Glamren spoke loudly and clearly, “This is Thorongil, Captain of Gondor, the Eagle of Cair Andros, and chosen Captain of the host of Anorien, who arrives here from Amon Din!”

The guard looked at Glamren and Aragorn, and then remembered the messengers from Minas Tirith, who passed Ecthelion’s orders through the Pelennor to the eastern gate. “Ah! The Lord Ecthelion alerted us to your coming, and we have been looking northwards, since. Muster your force upon the field here, for we march out on the morrow, as has been ordered.”

Aragorn nodded to the guard, and he turned to Glamren, as his right hand, to lead the muster and gather all upon the field. In the low light of evening, many men worked to set up pavilions and small tents, and horses were fed and rested, and all sat through the night by fires, and ate well. Men talked gladly together and the host of Anorien mingled with men of Minas Tirith and other outlands, and spirits were high among friends.

By midday, the host marched east and Aragorn’s company strode in the line with three hundred men of Minas Tirith, one hundred from the townsfolk of the Pelennor, and yet another one hundred from Belfalas. The host marched and their bright mail and silver plate glistened in the sun, and their spears stood like a thicket. Aragorn rode with Glamren and Caradol beside his company of men and he stared ahead at the white and grey stones of Osgiliath.

Against the dark mountains beyond, it shone brightly, but as they approached, it appeared bathed in shadow, grey and dusty. The city’s majesty could only be thought in the mind, finishing the broken towers and battlements like clouded memories. Great houses and buildings, one layer upon another, rose up, and some stood still intact; but most were cracked open and their stones fallen down upon themselves in slopes like scree upon a mountainside.

Aragorn’s company first turned off the road outside the battlements that surrounded the city, and before the western gate, they camped upon the plain. But Aragorn and his banner-bearers passed beneath the gate, and on either side stood towers, which had been rebuilt as best as men could with wood and stone. Men watched from within and atop the battlements as they passed through, and horns rang clear, and men shouted. They watched as familiar men and banners passed under them, but they looked strangely upon the banner that Glamren bore, for it was foreign to them; though, it flew alongside the Standard of the Stewards. Aragorn rode proudly, but as he passed beneath the gate and the shadow of the outer wall, he felt chill and unsteady. Thus, the heir of Isildur passed into the Citadel of the Stars, which long ago held the thrones of Anarion and Isildur, side-by-side.

The city itself lay crumbling, with great stones strewn about the streets, and broken towers crowned with great domes open to the sun. At the heights of the towers and buildings that climbed many levels, men could be seen, watching the surroundings, and there the stone was most white, caught ever in the light of day. Banners there blew in the breeze. The wide road continued eastward, and Aragorn could see far ahead a great bridge that spanned Anduin, and though it was destroyed, the Men of Gondor had rebuilt it with wood and stone so that their arms may pass over into the east.

Aragorn turned off the wide lane into a great square that had once been fair and lively. But it was now littered with debris and cracked stone. Surrounded by tall buildings with many arches leading within, it seemed to be a lesser headquarters, or barracks for men at arms who entered the city. There were tents within the buildings, and out of windows were clothes and blankets and many things that men laid about as they made themselves at home, wherever they could. Barrels and crates sat in every corner and there was the fresh smell of fire and food in the air.

In the evening, the Captains gathered in the buildings about the square, and Aragorn stood apart from them, on the outside of the group, all surrounding a table and standing beside it was a tall and proud man, broad shoulders and dark hair. His skin was light and fair, though upon his face was a great scar, and it seemed to Aragorn that he mirrored the city in which he stood: fair skin and a proud face, but marred by battle and worn by years. Thus, Gaelon stood among the others, for he was Captain in Osgiliath, protector of the great city ruin, master of the garrison, and ever did he dwell in the shadow and memory of kings. His voice rang loudly and deep like a great horn’s cry.

“Scouts report the enemy’s movement upon the eastern shore, and though the Ithilien Road is watched, it is less guarded since the attack upon Cair Andros, with so many drawn there to its defense. Remnants of that force began marching south not three days ago, and they passed the Crossroads, and were met by another force coming up from Harondor.”

“We guess their number at almost two thousands,” said Biron, a soldier in Gaelon’s force, who watched and commanded men in southwest Osgiliath.

“With these reinforcements, our numbers are greater, and we can defend the western city at all points,” Gaelon continued. “Their force consists mainly of Haradrim, for it seems the orcs that attacked Cair Andros fled northeast. Though, I suspect there may be some that fled down to the Morgul Vale, by ways unseen to us.”

The Captains listened with great care as Gaelon went through the defense, and he dispatched each company to a sector of the city. Aragorn’s company was sent east and north, for they would watch the city at a quarter just north of the great road that ran east-to-west. They departed with the rising of the Sun and they marched on foot, for no horse would be needed in the city streets and ruins. Glamren still carried the village banner, and Caradol marched beside, proud and straight, and he commanded men as Aragorn’s lieutenant.

Within the northeastern quarter, the city was quiet and dim, for buildings rose high about them, and shadows fell on the streets. But off the main road, and down a wider lane, at the end was a great circular domed structure, the roof collapsed in, and a great arched doorway stood gaping. The lane ended in a circle and in the center was a once-great fountain, where a statue had once stood, also. But, now only the feet and legs up to the knees remained, and the fountain was empty, filled in with dirt and stone. Aragorn stood there and looked up, imagining that Anarion or Isildur would have been looking back at him in some other age.

The great building across the circle was to be their headquarters and rallying point, for it was great and wide, and many men could stand within. The lane also created a wide, clear path for retreat, and they could openly fight in the great square. All around the buildings were smaller, either by destruction, or design. Small alleys passed between some, but many formed a solid wall on two sides of the domed building. The company of men halted in the square and they still spread down the lane behind, none venturing past Aragorn and the fountain. He stepped through a broken section of the fountain wall and walked up to the pedestal that held the statue’s remains. He reached out with a gloved hand and lightly touched the foot of the statue. His heart stirred, but he stood still and silent, and a moment later turned to Glamren and Caradol and waved them on, and Caradol nodded and turned to shout at the company, which spread out and sought shade and rest while they could.

Aragorn, Glamren, and Caradol walked up to the great dome and marveled at its size, for the great doorway stood 15 feet above them, but no door hung there, long crumbled into ruin. Inside, the sun beamed onto the floor through great holes and cracks in the dome. And the great room was empty, save for the litter about the floor. There were stone shelves carved upon the walls, and many arched doorways leading out of the main hall. A great slab of stone lay in the floor, the sun shining upon it, a great piece of the dome that had fallen within. There Aragorn stood and looked about.

“This was the King’s Library,” Glamren said, his voice filling the hall.

“We shall marshal here,” said Aragorn. “Caradol, send word for those men who shall lead their small detachments. I would like to set a watch and see how we may fortify the surrounding streets.”

Caradol nodded and went away, outside into the sun. Glamren walked about the great room, kicking loose stones and fragments of wood as if searching beneath the detritus and dust for some shining remnant of his past. “There are many doorways and halls that lead out from here. There must be numerous rooms and chambers in this complex,” he said.

“Indeed. Let us explore what we can, and block those that may be used by the enemy. If they come, they should be directed where we wish,” Aragorn said.

And so the men worked into the afternoon, and many passageways from the great library hall were blocked by crumbled stone and could no longer be used by friend or foe. But four doorways led out of the hall, still, and Aragorn’s men blockaded two with stone, beams of wood, and barrels, while the remaining two, which led east and north, were left clear. They built makeshift fortifications outside the great doorway, and the scene harkened back to the villagers’ defense, and how they now stood amid the former jewel of Gondor, hoping for the same outcome.

As the night drew close, Aragorn arrayed his company around the library, and men held street and alley against the enemy. They blocked and watched each meaningful passage, and their defense was so that any who approached would meet a strong force within tight spaces. And should the company be overrun, they had the fountain square and library hall to fall back to, and there, make a desperate defense, or die in the attempt.

Aragorn sat upon the great slab in the hall, and the light faded within, and he looked out of the hole overhead and saw the gleaming stars. Men lit torches around the walls and the hall filled with a warm dance of light and the flicker of flames shined upon the walls and up the dome. The night was quiet, for now, and Aragorn did not speak to many, and those who came through only nodded and saluted to him, but did not wish to disturb him. But in the night, a soft clear horn call echoed in the city, and a soldier came in and called his Captain.

“Lord Thorongil,” he said. “Watchers have seen the enemy’s movements. They approach from the south, and there are those also coming from the east.”

Aragorn stood, “Then pass the word to all the company to make ready.”

The soldier nodded and marched out swiftly, and Aragorn followed, for he did not wish to wait in the hall while his men fought in the streets. Glamren met him outside, for he stayed close by, but Caradol was away in some street or alley, commanding men with a voice hard as stone, and his mood unyielding.

Away in the gathering night, as if in cold response to the horns that called among the Men of Gondor, there came other notes. Deeper and of a strange rhythm, they echoed, and the chanting of strange tongues Aragorn then recognized from Cair Andros. The phalanx of the Southrons approached, though the horns and their cruel singing echoed so that they sounded among the buildings and alleys, and men looked all around, searching for the direction of their attack.

Gripping the hilt of Narsil at his side, Aragorn left Glamren in the square, and he went down a side lane, and past the alleys and in each he saw men at the ready, their swords and spears drawn, behind crate and barrel, waiting for any thrust by the enemy. At last they rushed, chanting in their own tongues songs of battle and fury. In the darkness of the streets, their dark robes and armor appeared out of the shadows of alleys and flooded streets like water. But, as the onslaught came, and Aragorn began to move forward on a street toward his barricade of men, the whistling of arrows flew by and he sought shelter beneath a long portico. He heard the cries of men and the dull thuds of arrows upon wood, and the sharp crack of them hitting stone.

The portico ran all the way to the barricade, and he came there and the barricade had broken into a tangle of men as the arrows forced the defenders behind cover, and the Southrons leaped over the barrels and beams and were now among the Men of Gondor, with spear and scimitar. Aragorn thrust into the fray from its right, and he pulled and pushed at the men of Harad, freeing his soldiers from their grip. But, then, he swept Narsil from its sheath and cut down several oncoming enemies. As the defenders rallied behind him, the sounds of more footfalls behind came rushing toward them, as he turned to see many men approaching, and Caradol before them.

“Thorongil!” he cried. “We’ve come to reinforce this street. The enemy strikes here, and there are other streets to the north under attack.”

“Aye, Caradol. Hold these men, here! I will see to the other streets!”

Back to the square Aragorn ran, and he turned to the north and saw many men filling the dark streets and their cries and the clashing of their arms echoed off the ruined stone into a great roar. They held. And in places they drove the Southron phalanx back, for they gave into fear and fell back from the Men of Gondor. Aragorn sheathed Narsil again, and found Glamren amid the square, near the great door of the Library. There he directed men carrying wounded soldiers into the dome, and he called out for men to run messages to their company spread out around in the streets.

Over the great din among the buildings all around, Aragorn heard a rending crash, and the screams of men, and the burst of flame. He and Glamren looked quickly eastward, and saw a great plume of smoke and flame leap above the structures down a small street. Soon, men ran panicked into the square; some leaned upon the shoulders of others, and their clothes and mail were burnt and scarred, and they cried in agony. Aragorn ran to them at once, and he gripped the shoulder of a man out of Anorien, whose face was blackened and wet with sweat and tears.

“What has happened?” Aragorn cried.

“They brought fire down upon us, and set our barricade aflame. A new force marches through,” the man said breathlessly.

“Glamren! Take these wounded! Sound the horn!”

And Glamren ordered men about and he turned to a man beside him, who lifted a horn to his lips and blew two notes upon it. Men began to return to the square, and Caradol came also, his retreat orderly, though he came with fewer numbers. A great mass of men assembled in the square from streets all about, and Glamren set them to order, and it was then that Aragorn caught the flight of some small flaming projectile, soaring through the air and crashing down upon buildings, and bursting across the stone, spilling fire and pitch across the streets.

Looking around at the structures nearby, he saw standing to the east a ruined tower, rising above all else around it. At its pinnacle was a broken peak, with high windows, and within Aragorn could see a faintly burning light. Then, he saw the movement of men, and at last, another bright flame, and as if they wielded a great sling, another projectile flew through the air and crashed upon buildings, bursting into flame.

“Caradol! To me!” Aragorn cried. And through the gathering order of men, Caradol came running, and his head carried a wound that had been wrapped in haste, and blood was on his cheek. “You are wounded! Call other men to me, you should stay here,” said Aragorn.

“Nay! I will go wherever you lead. I have been knocked, but it is little more than that. But, I will gather more men, if we shall make a sortie beyond the square,” Caradol said determinedly.

Aragorn looked at him and for a moment thought to rebuke Caradol, for he was wounded and now refusing the order to stay. But, the fire in him strengthened Aragorn, and he smiled warmly. “Go then, and call men together, quickly. We need ten or more,” said Aragorn, and Caradol ran and gathered those who heard his call that the Captain Thorongil needed aid for a sortie and soon a score of men gathered about Aragorn.

“See that ruined tower, there?” he said, pointing away. “There the enemy has slings and fire, and they are burning the city. We must drive them out of the tower, and make the surround safe for our men, again.” A great shout came from the men who gathered around him, and he led them away, through the Library, and into a corridor off the great dome, and they came to a ruined doorway that led out into a small alley, a pathway that the enemy had not yet found. There two men sat, ill at ease, though they saw no fighting.

“Captain!” one of them shouted as he stood and saw the sortie coming toward them.

“Keep your position, my friends,” Aragorn said to them, and he smiled. Whether the thrill of battle was on him, or he was seeking to calm them, he could not tell; but, his smile and warm greeting soothed their concern, and they smiled as well, seeing Thorongil, Caradol, and their brethren.

“All is quiet here,” one of the door-watchers said.

“Good. We are making a sortie to a ruined tower out yonder, and we shall return this way. Keep the way clear!” Aragorn said.

And he passed through the door with the score of men, and they moved quietly and through a cobbled street filled with dirt and pebbles. Aragorn looked up as the tower stood closer, and they came to a crossroads, and the tower stood around a corner, and he halted his men, for he heard the voices of the Haradrim. Caradol stood close behind him, and Aragorn turned to him and whispered. “I shall go ahead, stay here, and I will have a look.”

In the dark, Aragorn moved like a shadow, and the men near him remarked that he almost disappeared in the night, as if some power he possessed that they had not seen before. But he crept silently through debris and fallen stone, and hid behind a great block, looking round the corner. There torch light flickered on the walls and men stood at the base of the tower, with supplies around them, and a few ran up into the tower carrying great baskets on their backs while others ordered them, holding their torches in one hand and spears in the others. Aragorn recognized those standing watch, for they bore hardened leather armor, or some other foreign material, and their faces were covered in dark cloths wrapped about their heads. On their backs were scimitars, and they stood tall and broad.

After a time, Aragorn came back to his men and spoke in hushed voices to Caradol. “Haradrim elite guard the tower, though, they are occupied with ordering about their lesser men. Supplies they carry up, and it is no doubt further fuel and fire. We should take them by surprise, as their backs are turned to us,” he said.

At Aragorn’s word, the men burst around the corner and with a great cry, they rushed toward the Haradrim at the tower’s foot. Aragorn at the fore, he drove into the torch-bearing Haradrim and slew two, and his men caught many more off-guard, and they fell. Looking up at the tower, the burning of torches and fuel for fire projectiles could be seen glowing from within its high windows. Some of the Haradrim fled up the tower, and Aragorn turned to Caradol.

“Hold here with a dozen men, the rest shall follow me up,” he said.

“Aye, we shall watch your back!” Caradol said, and a light was in his eyes, for he was high with the lust of battle, and the surprising attack on the Haradrim was a sweet revenge for him from the loss of his men and the earlier retreat to the Library square.

Aragorn rushed into the tower with a handful of men behind and they stood in an open room with arched doorways leading to dark corridors and a stone flight of stairs on one wall. With no rail, the stair ran along one wall before turning to another, and in that way it passed up and high above was another level, for the tower was not wholly empty to the highest point. Aragorn began to climb the stairs, only wide enough for two men to walk abreast, and as they came to the second level, there men waiting there, with spears in hand, and they suddenly thrust forward as Aragorn’s head appeared through the opening in the floor.

He ducked and stepped back quickly, though nearly falling back. A soldier caught him. Aragorn slashed the spear and severed its point from the truncheon. The soldier behind him pushed him forward again, and Aragorn rushed into the chamber, with his men shouting as they came up behind. Only three lowly Harad soldiers were within, and though they pulled their blades, they could not withstand Aragorn and the fury of his soldiers. Looking up, he saw the stairs climb further up to another level. Looking out the windows, he saw down below, a counter-attack, and fighting in the street. Men waylaid Caradol and the defenders of the tower at its foot.

“You men, return below! Caradol and his companions are under attack! You three, come with me to the top!” Aragorn quickly ran up the stairs and three men followed while the rest went down again.

They burst through the floor of the upper chamber and quickly a Haradrim soldier met Aragorn and they crossed blades, and tussled. The three men came behind and with a cry, one fell as a Haradrim soldier lay hidden at the stair opening. Two against two, Aragorn and the remaining man with him fought in a crowded chamber, quickly turning into a tangle of limbs and blades, and Aragorn pushed the soldier back from him, and with a great rush and kick, he drove his feet into the soldier’s chest, and he fell back and tripped over a stone, and fell through the open window. At last, he turned and slew the remaining Haradrim in the chamber, freeing his companion from the fight. They breathed heavily, and Aragorn’s legs and chest ached, but he looked up to see a wooden trap door above them.

“A ladder, sire!” the man called as he lifted a wooden ladder from beneath the body of a Haradrim.

“We cannot get through the door, for they have surely barred it above,” Aragorn said. He looked around and saw that they stood amid the enemy’s fuel and store of projectiles. Small barrels stood about with oil within, and small clay pots were stacked in baskets. “These are the enemy’s weapons, and perhaps we could use it against them.”

They quickly piled the barrels and unplugged their holes so that the oil poured down the pile, and they stacked the clay pots and baskets there as well, and at length, Aragorn sent his man down the stairs to the lower chamber. Standing on the stairs with just his head in the chamber, Aragorn struck the flint that he still carried and lit a spark upon the floor, and quickly it began to spread among the oil. He rushed down the stairs, and the two of them bounded down, nearly falling over one another.

As the fighting raged across the city, and fires emerged here and there, and the calls of men, horns, and the ringing of clashing swords lifted above the ruined buildings and towers, from one lone tower in the eastern quarter, beside the King’s Library, a great burst of flame rent stone and shook all around it. The tower’s pinnacle burst into flame, and the stones flew in all directions, and the bodies of men flew from it also. Great screams were heard, and the rumbling of fallen stone upon buildings below. They crashed down and broke further the buildings around, and the tower stood burning, and its stones began to fall on themselves, and it lurched, and came tumbling down in a heap to the side.

Aragorn and his man lay on the ground, with stone and wood and dust overtop of them. He shielded his head from the blast, and as the rumble of tumbling stone died away, he stood, and looked around, for the air was thick with smoke and dust, and his ears were ringing. He rubbed his eyes as the man next to him climbed to his feet also, using Aragorn as support as he stood. They looked at the destroyed tower, now a great pile of debris, which blocked their path. When they had reached the bottom of the stairs, Aragorn had thrown his companion into one of the dark corridors as the tower came down all around them. The great collapse of stone tore the corridor apart, and it opened the roof and walls, and they stood in its ruin, but they would have to climb over the debris, which now stood more than twice their height.

As they began to climb with their hands clawing at the stone and loose pebbles, they heard renewed fighting and Aragorn knew it to be Caradol and those men who defended the tower. His heart raced and he climbed like a creature on all fours, quickly clawing his way to the top and pulling the soldier behind him up as well. They reached the top, and saw that their men were spread about the crossroads and many men lay dead as the tower’s ruin lay all around. A handful remained, and Caradol was among them, though he fought with a stumbling desperation from fatigue and the shock of the tower’s fall.

“Caradol!” Aragorn cried, and he leapt down the mountain of debris and ran forth. He was intercepted by a Haradrim soldier who thrust a spear, but Aragorn moved aside, gripped the shaft, and pulled the soldier unexpectedly, off-balance, and thrust Narsil into his chest. He threw the spear down and raced to Caradol, who parried a blow from one soldier, but was cut by another, and Aragorn reached him, he fell to one knee. Aragorn ran into one soldier and with the full weight of his body, and he parried the other, and quickly the Haradrim fell, and Aragorn turned and slew the other, as well.

The Haradrim soldiers fled, and the few remaining men from Aragorn’s sortie gathered together, eight only remained. Caradol breathed weakly, and he held his hand at one side, tight to his body, while he let his sword fall to the ground with the other. Aragorn held him up, and he could see the man’s eyes falling, and the wound to his head was renewed and his face was red. But, Caradol smiled, and said, “You could have given us a warning that you would bring the tower down upon our heads.”

Aragorn laughed, but held back his tears as the sight of the man tore at his heart. He lifted Caradol and supporting him with an arm around his body and with the help of another, they carried him. They returned the way they came, and as they reached the small outer doorway, the two door-watchers stood sharply and ran to them.

“Prepare a place among the wounded!” Aragorn called, and the door-watchers nodded and ran away without their weapons. “Two of you stay behind and watch the door until they are sent back,” he said.

He and the other soldiers returned to the Library, where many men filled the great hall, wounded or otherwise. They laid Caradol down upon the floor, for no beds did they have to comfort those wounded men. Those wardens among them who traveled with each company from the city’s garrison began to inspect his body beneath mail and tunic. Aragorn knelt beside him.

“Thorongil!” A voice cried. Glamren strode up to him, and Aragorn saw that his blade was out and red, though he had sustained no mark. When Glamren saw that Caradol lay wounded, he sheathed his blade and came quickly, and knelt beside them. “Caradol! Will he be safe?”

“We shall do what we can,” one of the wardens responded.

“Glamren, what of the fight here?” Aragorn asked.

“Much of the attack has been repelled. I am not sure what their purpose has been, but many were drawn off, away to the South,” Glamren answered, though his eyes remained fixed on Caradol’s wounds.

“There is still work to be done,” Aragorn said, looking up at Glamren.

“Captain,” muttered Caradol, and his hand reached up and gently touched Aragorn’s face, before falling back again to his side.

The wardens looked at Aragorn, “He has fallen into a sleep. We will save him, if we can.”

Aragorn nodded and looked upon Caradol, for he seemed peacefully asleep, dreaming. But quickly Aragorn’s face twisted and hardened, and he stood, looking at Glamren. “Come, we must drive the rest of them out of this quarter, if we can!”

The two of them strode out of the Library, and into the square, they found many men marshaled, and the din of battle was a distant echo, for the Haradrim had fled, and no longer pressed upon them. In the square were at least six score, and Glamren blew a note upon a horn when he and Aragorn emerged from the great doorway. He sent each score out from the square, and Aragorn himself led one of them, down an eastern street. Glamren stayed behind, and many men under his control continued to defend the Library, and extinguish fires set in the night.

Aragorn and his company pursued the Haradrim through streets away to the east, and the Southrons fled into the trees and hills of Ithilien. Though they reached the outskirts of the city, by daybreak, Aragorn feared to continue any pursuit and his men returned to the Library, and he sent messengers to other quarters of the city, and to the western bank, to report of the East Quarter’s holding.

At last, by the late afternoon, he returned through the great doorway, and the Library stood now full of wounded men, and the dead lay outside in neat rows as their compatriots carried them reverently to the square and laid them beneath grey cloths, or the very cloaks from the backs of the living. Aragorn walked quietly through the wounded men, and there were many who would not see through the night. Little could he do, here, with no established stores of healing herbs or other materials. The wardens wrapped wounds and with what items they could carry with them, they healed those who suffered less, and comforted those who suffered most.

He found Glamren sitting beside Caradol. Aragorn saw that Caradol’s face was a pale grey and the blood from the wound on his brow had been cleaned, and the dirt washed from him, and he lay quietly, his arms gently resting upon his chest. His eyes were closed and Glamren sat solemnly and Aragorn put a hand on his shoulder, for the two men had been great friends for many a year.

“I bid him not to come with me to the tower, but to find men who were fresh,” Aragorn said, his voice quavering. “But he refused, and wished to come himself. In allowing him to follow me, I failed him.”

“Nay, lord,” Glamren said softly. “To leave him behind would have wounded him more greatly than any sword or spear. He carried a fire, always, and one that I could rarely match. Though we both were soldiers, he was the stouter and swifter.”

And then Glamren laughed, at a far off memory, and he stared off into the great hall as Aragorn sat beside him upon the floor. And Glamren spoke, “Though we came of age at the same time, he always looked older than I, for his father was a smith, and he worked so that his stature grew far greater than other boys our age who lived in our village on the Pelennor. He would ride and drive to Minas Tirith, carrying his father’s swords and metalworks on wagons; and I would ride with him.”

“We would always marvel at the city, and its great walls, and we dreamed of being its defenders someday. When we delivered his father’s goods, we would sit on a high wall and look out over the Pelennor, eating sweets that we bought in markets. Never did we imagine the cold reality of death and danger that accompanied our dreams,” Glamren lamented.

“Those are fair memories, and do not let the darkness of your present days pass a shadow over them. Nay, they are a bright spring morning, driving back the cold of winter. Caradol will always live in your memory, and he did not die amid a dark and dreadful hour,” Aragorn said. He looked up and around the dome overhead and it glowed warmly with the pink light of dusk. “Caradol died here, in the city of great kings past; and they will pay homage to him, for even in their absence he served their memory.”

Glamren did not speak further. And Aragorn left him to mourn his friend. Outside the Library, Aragorn stood once more at the foot of the great shattered statue, and from the west, the Sun was low and the shadows in the city were long upon the ground and the buildings around the square. Many men still moved about, though most were now resting and sitting in small groups in what comfort they could make for themselves. They began kindling small fires and torches were lit within the Library and around the square.

He looked up at the statue and a loneliness gripped him, and guilt and fear assailed his heart. Aragorn wondered at the wisdom of Elrond, and the counsel to travel to Gondor, and here move among honorable men with another name. But, he also knew that to do otherwise, and to reveal the Sword of Elendil, as it truly was, would cause great tumult, and there would be those who flocked to his banner, and many more who would seek to destroy him and all those who followed him.

Aragorn thought back to the Hand of Castamir, that aged villain in Minas Tirith who harkened back to Castamir the Usurper, who besieged Eldacar in Osgiliath. And the Hand spoke of Ecthelion’s demise and counsels to him, and Aragorn was filled with doubt, for could his own coming presage the fall of Ecthelion and the House of Stewards? No, he could not be anything but Thorongil, for the enemy is still at work, he thought. The Hand of Castamir said he was but a servant, and that their victory was nigh, and Aragorn learned nothing else of the plot from those he, Glamren, and Caradol pursued out of Minas Tirith. Like Caradol, he thought, another failure. Aragorn sat, with his back to the pedestal of the statue, and watched the stars in the east as the night fell upon Gondor.


	16. A Fell and Hidden Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Glamren lead a company of men eastward out of Osgiliath to pursue remnants of the forces that attacked the city. To their surprise, Denethor and Lord Alcaron join the party at camp; but, they are soon ambushed, and at the head of the orcs is a strange Black Numenorean, who speaks ill omens to Aragorn. The battle at the Cross-roads goes ill, and it leaves Aragorn to pursue the enemy even closer to Mordor.

A trumpet called solemnly across the ruins of Osgiliath. The sun was high, and men lined the great broad road, their heads low, and men stood atop towers and crushed stone, on parapets and ruined balconies of every high building. A great, slow procession of wagons slowly rolled west, and upon them, many men lay, cloaked in dark sheets. Many perished through the night, and now the Men of Gondor watched their brethren upon a final journey, for the deceased would be laid in a large mound outside the city upon the western bank.

Beside Aragorn stood Glamren, and around them were arrayed the men of Anorien. The line stretched far, and the rows behind numbered five or more where space upon the side of the road allowed. Their company had lost less than one hundred, but the wounds were not lessened. Each man along the road carried a sign of battle, or the weight of a lost friend.

As the wagons passed, there behind the last rode the high lords, Gaelon among them. But to Aragorn’s surprise there also were Alcaron and Denethor. Upon his steed, the son of Ecthelion looked kingly, and he wore a bright cuirass and a black flowing cape. He looked forward, ever to the west, and grief was on his face, though it seemed to Aragorn to be a practiced grief, a veil that he wore in such times when he must appear before those beneath him. Indeed, as he passed Aragorn, Denethor caught a glimpse of him, and looked down as he passed, nodding solemnly. Aragorn put a hand to his breast and bowed his head. Alcaron also acknowledged them, but the high lords rode on, their backs straight, and many soldiers marveled at them amid their own grief.

No labor was undertaken that day, and in the evening, great feasts were held across Osgiliath, with each company of men from all the lands of Gondor there assembled, holding their own merriment and becoming lost in their mirth. Though the men of Anorien drank and sang to their fallen comrades, Aragorn stayed with them for a short time, and later in the night, he took his leave and gathered with all other captains in a great stronghold built near to the western wall of the city. There, Gaelon and the high lords were gathered, and held their own feast.

Each captain came before Gaelon’s table, where Denethor and Alcaron sat, also. Gaelon toasted each, and if a captain had fallen in the battle, his lieutenant was then raised to new rank, and they drank to the fallen and Denethor praised the new Captain who spoke oath to him, as representative of the Steward. But, as Aragorn came before them, Alcaron seemed in great spirits, and he called out with his cup raised, “Ah! Thorongil! This is the captain of whom I spoke, Gaelon,” Alcaron said to the Lord of Osgiliath.

“Thorongil, you led the men of Anorien, in the Eastern quarter,” Galen said.

“Aye, lord,” Aragorn responded, bowing his head.

“Your company did well, and I saw the fires they wrought there, and the great blast within the tower, like a beacon on a far hill,” Gaelon said.

“I tried to drive the Haradrim from the tower, but they were locked at its peak, and could not be assailed, save by bringing down the tower beneath them,” Aragorn said.

“A fine move!” Alcaron cheered, rather cluelessly.

But Aragorn shook his head, and his face was dark and softened, “Alas, many who followed me there were slain. My lieutenant, Caradol, among them.”

Gaelon nodded somberly, and Alcaron became silent. “Many will not return to their homes, but they have received the Gift of Men, and their fate is no longer bound to this world, for they may sing alongside the One,” Gaelon said rejoiceful.

“Aye, lord,” Aragorn said.

“Thorongil, be seated with us, now!” said Alcaron. “There is a matter we wish to discuss.”

“I had hoped to wait until the morrow,” Gaelon said, looking sideways at Alcaron.

“Nonsense! Let us speak of it now, while he is here, and the Lord Denethor may contribute also, for surely he is to return to Minas Tirith ere the sun rises. I would not wish the son of the Steward to be imperiled, he being not a man of war,” Alcaron said. At this Denethor stirred and he cleared his throat and looked at Alcaron and his eyes were steeled. “Forgive me, lord,” Alcaron said sheepishly.

Aragorn sat next to Gaelon, who spoke plainly, “We have driven the enemy away from Osgiliath, and they retreat south and east. Though, we have decided to further pursue them, at least within Ithilien, to ensure they do not regroup. There is still time to scatter them further. Alcaron, and others agreed, that you be the Captain to lead such a sortie.”

“The Lord Alcaron speaks highly of me,” Aragorn bowed his head. “Though, other Captains may wish for this renown, especially one who knows the land more intimately than I,” said Aragorn.

“Indeed, there are such others, but Alcaron reminded us that it was you who entered Ithilien carrying his message, and there met Celador, Captain in Ithilien, with whom you fought at Cair Andros,” said Gaelon. “We have word that he and his rangers are abroad again in Ithilien, his wound healed from the previous battle. He would welcome you, and your men, and in a combined force, you may drive the enemy south, even beyond Emyn Arnen, if able.”

“Celador!” Aragorn was jubilant upon hearing that the ranger had recovered. “My heart would be overjoyed to fight beside him once more. If this is your will, Lord, then I and the men of Anorien who follow me, will see it done.”

“Good, it is settled, then,” said Gaelon. “Eat and drink now, and you may set forth with your company in the morning.”

\--

Before the noon hour, Aragorn and Glamren rode at the head of their company, which they divided and the bulk remained in Osgiliath. With them rode a score on horseback, and another three score on foot. The soldiers in Osgiliath cheered and called to them as the company passed by upon the road, heading east. Near the center of the city, they came to a once-great stone bridge that rose above the land gradually, with wide white stones and columns on either side, and it gently climbed up upon archways that held it over Anduin. But many years ago, the bridge had been laid to waste, and many of its once splendid features were cast down into the river and onto the banks below. Great white blocks of stone mixed with gravel upon the banks beneath them, and even protruded from the shallows of the river near the banks like moss covered boulders.

The clip-clop of their horses’ hooves upon the stone changed to a deep thudding as the bridge changed to wooden beams and boards, stretched across broken passes of the stone. Long maintained and rebuilt, the bridge spanned the river, and they came across and down a gentle slope again to the eastern city. Aragorn looked to the north to see the small tower, its pinnacle blasted down, and stones stained with dark soot. It rose just beyond and to the east of the King’s Library, whose dome caught the light and glimmered in the Sun.

After many hours through the city and into the green grey woods of Ithilien, they camped alongside the road, still many miles from the Cross-roads. Aragorn sent many riders about and watchers on foot, for he hoped to meet Celador soon. No sight of the enemy had they seen, but he remained cautious, and scouts stayed abroad for the night and another day.

On the second day since they set up camp along the road, two scouts raced from the southeast, and broke through the trees, alerting the outer watchers, and passing through the camp as men hurried about them, trying to catch news from afar. The two men were dehorsed, and ragged, and they carried little gear with them, as if they had shed all weight upon their journey back to the camp. Their faces were red and worn, and men brought water and food to them as they sat within the greater tent that Aragorn used as his own and as a council meeting place.

“Lord...orcs we have seen,” one of the scouts, Ranor, said. He breathed heavily and drank deeply from a waterskin given to him.

“Catch your breath, friend. I am glad to see you are unhurt,” Aragorn said.

“We traveled to the Morgulduin, and there upon the northern bank we were resting. But we heard calls and marching across the river. An orc rabble, traveling north and east. We suspected they were entering the dark valley,” Ranor said.

“Arrows were shot at us, and soon we found that orcs were upon our bank as well,” spoke Trevadron, who had just now caught his breath from the long journey back to the camp. “We were nearly surrounded, but sped back north and west, but we had to leave our horses behind, for the orcs were upon us quickly.”

Aragorn’s face was grave and he put a hand to his chin as he pondered the news. He paced to and fro and all eyes in the tent were upon him. At last he spoke, “I will ride with our men on horseback; we shall pursue this force and drive them back across the river. Glamren, you and the remaining men should await Celador and his rangers!”

At once men in the tent began moving with clear purpose. Glamren commanded those that would stay in the camp, and he sent Trevadron and Ranor away to further rest and recover while others passed word through the camp. The watch was increased, and men were made more ready to bear arms as quickly as may be needed. Glamren sent scouts northward in hopes of linking up with Celador’s rangers sooner rather than later.

Out in the camp, Aragorn and many men prepared their weapons and saddled their mounts. Aragorn climbed upon his steed as Glamren approached to receive any final orders. The horsemen were lightly equipped for speed, and spears were held high like a growing thicket. Aragorn wheeled his horse and spoke to Glamren, “Should Celador arrive before we return, make for the Cross-roads and there wait for us. We shall return by that road, so either we shall meet you there, or return to camp here.”

“Good hunting, Thorongil!” Glamren cried, and Aragorn leaned down in his saddle and they clutched one another’s arms and Aragorn’s face was bright and smiling.

At last he cried loudly to the score of men on horseback and in a cloud of dust he spurred the horse beneath him and it sprang away southward, and the host followed in a thunder of hooves. The company sped through Ithilien toward the Morgulduin. Through the hills and the shadowed woods, the riders came upon orcs on the banks of the river in small camps of tents and fires. With terrible speed, Aragorn’s riders scattered the rabble and overran the tents, and orcs fled to the east, but spear and bow fell them as they ran. And the riders pressed orcs into the river, and the enemy were beaten down beneath the waters.

As the evening fell, Aragorn rallied the riders on the riverbank among the flotsam of the orc camp. Men dismounted and picked through the remains and lit torches from the fires of the orcs and spilled their supplies into the foul-smelling river. When the camp was laid to waste, Aragorn sent a few scouts across the river to the south, and east. But the bulk of his riders mounted once more and returned to the north, suffering no casualties, for their flight was swift and terrible. They came upon the Cross-roads shortly, and found none there, for his host had not yet come up the road.

The men sat on their horses, all growing tired from hard, swift riding, and the brief swell of battle now wore away and their eyes were cloudy and they began to notice the heavy weight of their arms. The moon and stars were clear overhead at the center of the four roads, and all about them were great trees in a ring about the crossing and Aragorn tarried only a few moments, for a darkness and a chill seemed to grow within him, and beneath the canopy of trees. Steeds became unsettled, and Aragorn looked to the east where a growing mist seemed to creep through the forest, and the night grew especially cold.

“Let us ride West! To camp, and return on the morrow,” Aragorn called to his men and the score rode once again and came at last to the camp where Glamren remained with the greater host. Few hours remained in the night, and man and horse that returned were welcomed and fed.

“Thorongil!” Glamren said as Aragorn entered his great tent once again. But, to Aragorn’s amazement, beside Glamren, around the table in the room and map of Ithilien upon it, stood Denethor and Alcaron. Each was clad in fair mail beneath his tunic and in the corner of the tent stood posts with fine, shining silver plates, for the lords were dressed for war, though little mark had been made upon their armor.

“Lord Denethor, Lord Alcaron,” Aragorn exclaimed, bowing his head. “I did not expect to see you again until I returned to Minas Tirith.”

“And you would not have, were it not for the counsel of Lord Alcaron, who wished us to set out behind your company from Osgiliath, and bolster the morale of the men, who were asked to endure such a maneuver after a hard battle within the city,” said Denethor.

“It has brightened their spirits to see their Lord among them!” Alcaron exclaimed, and he greeted Aragorn warmly. “Now, what of your sally, did you find the enemy?”

Aragorn looked at Glamren, who stood beside Denethor, and he held a look like one annoyed at being watched over his shoulder. Glamren’s control of the camp had withered upon the arrival of Denethor, who, along with Alcaron, seemed to take command among the three of them, though they issued no orders directly to the company. But, now, Glamren became relieved, for he surely thought Thorongil’s return would sway the two lords to listen to his counsel, and follow a wise course.

“Only a rabble of orcs camped upon the banks of Morgulduin,” Aragorn said, walking to the table and tracing his riders’ flight upon the map. “We came here, and routed them and thrashed their camp. Many were killed, and only a handful fled eastward. I sent three men across the river, and they rode south and east.”

“A fine maneuver!” Alcaron declared. “Where shall we pursue the enemy next?” He seemed eager to move the company forth, while Glamren and Aragorn looked at one another and remained committed to their original strategy.

“We will march east with the company in the morning, and upon reaching the Cross-roads, encamp there,” Aragorn said.

“Will the enemy not escape if we wait further?” Alcaron asked.

“If they flee, then all the better. I do not wish to send our men on a longer march to merely scatter small rabbles,” Aragorn said.

“To drive the enemy out of Ithilien was the order,” Denethor spoke up. “But, the Cross-roads is a better place from which to pursue them.”

“I will yield to the wisdom of my Lord,” Alcaron said, lowering his head to Denethor.

“Let us reconvene in the morning!” Denethor said, and he and his guards left the tent with Alcaron following behind.

Glamren leaned over the table and rubbed his face with his hands, “A strange sight to see them follow us here, after no word of such before we departed Osgiliath.”

“Indeed,” Aragorn said, looking at the tent flap. “Denethor’s presence would lift the men’s spirits, but it needlessly exposes him to danger. He also does not place much trust in me.”

“Why not?” Glamren asked.

“He is suspicious of my presence, and with the plot in Minas Tirith that we uncovered, he fears those who would advise Ecthelion from outside,” Aragorn said, and his voice was quiet for he was weary from the ride and from the position that he was now in, with Denethor back among him, and he knew that the Steward’s son continued to hold him in suspicion, though their working together in the depths of Minas Tirith had soothed some of his worries.

“What else a Captain of Gondor would have to do to earn his trust, I cannot tell,” Glamren said.

“Do not worry, we must stay our course, and Lord Denethor will make up his own mind. But, I will continue to serve Ecthelion, and Gondor, until the Steward sends me away, or the day comes that duty calls me elsewhere,” Aragorn said.

At that moment, a horn called from watchers surrounding the camp and many men hurried about with calls and shouts. Aragorn and Glamren looked up at the sound and rushed out of the tent, and followed those who ran toward the call. It was in the south and east, and when they arrived at the edge of camp, they found men gathered around riderless horses. Dread had settled upon them, and they talked in hushed voices while the two horses stamped nervously.

“What is the call?” Glamren asked as he and Aragorn approached the group.

“These horses returned, but with no riders,” one of the watchers said. “Where are the riders?” He asked aloud, fearing the answer.

Aragorn broke through the growing crowd. He soothed one of the horses with quiet words and his soft touch and the men remarked at his calm. “These belong to those who rode with me, and I dispatched them to scout south of the Morgulduin.” Suddenly, a third horse came thrashing through the trees, and upon its back was a dark bundle bouncing as the horse ran. Men intercepted the steed and it reared and they held tight the reins and stood around it. At last it calmed and they looked closely at the bundle to find it was the bloodied body of the rider, tied harshly to the saddle.

“To arms!” Aragorn shouted. “The enemy will surely follow!” All men looked at him and suddenly burst into shouts and movement.

The camp was in a state of mild panic, which Glamren and Aragorn tried to keep from overwhelming the men’s courage. Glamren and other lieutenants ordered men into ranks and they stood with sword, shield, and spear at the ready, in lines facing the south and east. Denethor and Alcaron emerged from their tents and came to Aragorn hurriedly.

“Thorongil! Are we under attack?” Denethor asked.

“The scouts I sent south were killed, and I anticipate the enemy close behind the horses that returned riderless,” Aragorn said. And soon enough the night was broken by the deep, harsh cry of an orc horn, and their foul voices and shouts, and torches were lit beneath the trees to the south, and arrows whistled among the leaves. “Seek cover!” Aragorn shouted to them, and he ran to the south where the line of soldiers stood with wood and steel shields raised, some already pierced with arrows, while others held firm against the darts.

The men of Anorien were less equipped than knights of Minas Tirith, and so they wore less plate, and carried wooden shields for the most, but they stood firm, in tight ranks as orcs rushed forward from the darkness. They cried in shrieking voices and tossed torches high into the air, some landing upon the ground harmlessly, but others hitting the shields of men at the front, and the orcs threw themselves upon the line of soldiers.

“Hold!” Aragorn cried, as he stood behind the line of men which stretched in a great crescent, and the first thrust of the orcs could not dislodge them, for their spears were as thickets, and their shields held tightly together like firm masonry. But, the number of orcs could not be told in the deepening night, and soon, Aragorn feared they would be surrounded. “Glamren! Are those who ride mounted yet? The orcs will attempt to steal or spook the horses!” Aragorn called across the line and over the noise.

Glamren ran over to him, “Denethor and Alcaron went to rally the riders!” he said. “They came to me after you departed and told me thus, though I counseled against their going.”

“Fools,” Aragorn muttered. But before he could say more, a tent beside them was hit by a flying torch and caught fire, and men rushed to douse it or beat it down. “Hold the line!” Aragorn cried, returning to the men at the front, who still pushed and were pushed by orcs who leapt at them, but then fell back again, and came once more on them like crashing waves. But their numbers were too few to push back the shields of Gondor, and they cursed and cried and leapt in vain.

“Thorongil, they spread out, and seek to encircle us,” Glamren said, as he dispatched another soldier away to the east. “We should tighten our circle, or push forward!”

Aragorn looked around him as the fires spread among the tents and the clash of swords and shields filled the night, and he knew his position was untenable. But, then in a great rush of cries and wind, those men on horseback came riding from the west, and with Alcaron and Denethor among them, they swept round in front of the line of men and trampled many orcs, driving back a great number of others. In the shock, those defending sprang forward and cut down orcs who were suddenly trapped between shield and hoof.

“Denethor!” the men shouted, seeing the Steward’s son riding between his guards as they passed the ranks of men, though he carried a sword, he swept it down little as orcs fled from the rush of horses.

“Regroup!” Aragorn shouted, and a horn was blown, and the men remembered their plight and turned together and formed again another line, and any who were wounded were carried back further into the camp and laid down, and men still rushed to douse burning tents around them as the orc arsonists had done their work.

Aragorn watched the riders turn northward and then circle back to the east and though he heard their hooves, he lost sight of many of them, for they turned a wide circle in the night. Another horn call signaled another oncoming rush of orcs, this time in greater numbers, and a tighter column, but at their head Aragorn saw a strange captain, one he had never seen in North or South, for he was a Black Numenorean, of the men long ago corrupted by the Enemy, who still served Him in the dark, far-off lands in Mordor and the East.

Drums beat with the oncoming orcs, and they marched in step and the black Captain at the fore, robed in black, and a hood concealed his face in further darkness. Though a sword was clasped to his belt, he did not wield it, but it seemed a greater terror came before him, and the orcs gave him a wide berth. He raised a hand and the orcs trembled and a note from their horns signaled the charge.

Aragorn stood with a hand on the shoulder of one of his men, and as the orcs came rushing forward, the men of Anorien trembled at the sight of the Black Numenorean and the terror that seemed to emanate from him like a cold wind. “Steady!” Aragorn cried, and the orcs crashed into them, snarling and flailing, and some men fell back at the force, but others held their shields firm, and where a man fell, another stepped forward swiftly with sword and shield, and the line held for a moment. Aragorn looked to the east and trained his ears but heard no pounding hooves, and he wondered where Denethor, Alcaron, and his riders had gone.

But they did not return, and the Captain of the orcs strode forward, and the men of Anorien faltered and Aragorn could see their terror and the orcs, backing away, laughed and howled sinisterly. But Aragorn felt no fear, but only a fire within him and a hardened will that his men should not fall back. He pushed through the line and the Captain across the way drew his sword defiantly, and its cold steel was dark, forged in ancient malice. In response, Aragorn drew Narsil, and it stood in bright relief, reflecting moon and stars, and in two hands he held it high by his face, and the Captain seemed to look upon it with curiosity, which was overcome by a shadow of doubt far within his memory.

And the two came at one another, and Aragorn with a fury that none could match, though the Black Numenorean seemed not dismayed. Their blades crossed, and rang out beneath the trees, and the sword of the Black Numenorean shook and the tremor ran down his arm and he stepped back. Then Aragorn stepped forward and delivered a mortal wound, and the Black Numenorean fell back upon his knee, and the orcs behind stared, stricken dumb, and their anger and lust was washed away by fear.

Then, a great call rang out through the trees, and as a flock of birds may depart in one rush of wings, there came a great dark mass of men from the west, moving through the dark foliage, faces covered and only their bright swords and spears catching the moonlight. They washed over the orcs like a current, and panic consumed the enemy and they ran in every direction. The rangers of Ithilien had come undetected; but, now even in the ambush, they slew silently.

“Forward!” cried Aragorn as he lifted Narsil and waved the men of Anorien toward the enemy, and the soldiers sprang forward in a cry, and they rushed past him and the Black Numenorean, and their foes were caught between the swift and silent fury of the rangers, and the stout shields of the men of Anorien. The orcs wailed, and were crushed between the hammer and the anvil.

The Black Numenorean spit at Aragorn’s feet, and though his breathing was labored and his voice weak and broken, he laughed. “Fool. Gondor is now ready to fall, but that is your intent, usurper,” he hissed.

Aragorn looked down and placed the broken end of Narsil at the Numenorean’s hood, though he did not raise his head to look into his face. “No usurper am I, though your plans have come up against me, now many times, and all fail,” he answered.

“Fail?” the Numenorean coughed and laughed amid his gasps. “You still search for your enemy, one who sets his will against you, but it is not I.”

“Then speak his name so that I may put an end to this plot at last,” Aragorn said fiercely.

“You will see him in due time, when the veil is lifted,” answered the Numenorean, and with a cough he choked, and keeled over and was at last silenced.

Glamren came up to them, now, and saw the captain lying dead upon the ground. “A Black Numenorean!” he cried. “Scattered and few, I thought they perhaps were all fallen, or at least, vanished into the far East. Disgraced men of Numenor, beneath the shadow. Good riddance to him.”

“Aye, thought perhaps his power was greatly diminished, for it was not a great effort to fell him,” Aragorn said. “Though now, I fear his purpose was merely a feint, for he spoke of a veil, and I still have yet to find the master of these that plot against Gondor.”

“What did he say, Thorongil?” asked Glamren.

“He spoke of the fall of Gondor, that it teetered on the edge of defeat; he knew that we had yet to meet his master, but said that we would soon,” Aragorn answered.

“Ever the servants of the enemy seek to deceive, and he could merely be sowing doubt in your mind, Thorongil,” Glamren said. “I see no sign, after such a string of victories, that Gondor is at the brink.”

Aragorn did not reply, but merely thought to himself, and sheathing Narsil, he looked about as the men of Anorien and the rangers of Ithilien mingled and greeted one another gladly, for the orcs had been put down. Those driven away were hunted down and swiftly felled by the rangers, and Aragorn looked for Celador among them. But, swiftly, men came up to Aragorn and Glamren with alarm, though the fight had ended.

“Captain Thorongil, it is the Lords Denethor and Alcaron,” one of the soldiers called. “They have not returned, nor has any of their riders.”

Glamren and Aragorn looked at one another in shock, “Send out scouts, find them at once!” Aragorn shouted.

“No need,” a sullen voice said behind them. Aragorn and Glamren turned to see Celador and a handful of rangers with him. “We have found them, ambushed, and the riders dead.”

“How can this be?” Glamren cried.

“I sent a small company toward the Cross-roads, though the bulk of my rangers came here,” Celador said. “They returned and reported that a great ambush had occurred there, and many were slain and dehorsed; though, they did not find the bodies of any lords. All were soldiers.”

“Taken captive,” Aragorn said. “Celador, you must lead us to them, and we must pursue them with all speed.” Suddenly, Aragorn knew the words of the Black Numenorean to be true. Whether a feint, or some other work of deception, the attack upon them had led to the ambush and capture of Denethor and Alcaron. He had been bested, and now, he had placed Gondor in true mortal peril.

“Aye, Thorongil,” Celador said. “There also were large uruks, brutal troops of Mordor, among the dead. Your men did not fall alone. My rangers went out to seek their trail.”

“Glamren, stay and lead the men, rally everyone here, and return to Osgiliath,” Aragorn said, placing a hand upon Glamren’s shoulder.

“Nay!” cried Glamren, and all around were taken aback at his mood. “I will not abandon you, for Caradol followed you to his fate, and I could do no less.”

“Would that Caradol had stayed and heeded my orders, he may yet live,” Aragorn said softly, his eyes downcast.

“Forgive me,” said Glamren. “My heart is aflame, for my fallen brother, and for loyalty to my Captain.”

Aragorn smiled, “Do not despair, Glamren. I would bring you with us, but I fear this errand must be left to those with all skill in the wild, and who are fleet of foot. The riders who fell at the Cross-roads, their bodies should not be left as they lay. Travel only that far, and recover them, so that they may be honored and laid to rest peacefully.”

“I will do as you command,” Glamren said.

“We shall return with Denethor and Alcaron, or not at all,” Aragorn said. And he turned to Celador and a fire was in his eyes, and suddenly, he looked lean, but strong, and Celador remarked that Thorongil looked nothing like the man he saw first in Ithilien, a fair messenger, and then, a steely soldier upon the banks of Cair Andros; he looked a ranger, a wild and reckless man, whose grey eyes saw through even the darkest nights. “Pick no more than ten men, for we must race with all speed.”


	17. The Veil Lifted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn, Celador, and a small band of rangers fly to the Morgul Vale to rescue the captured Denethor and Lord Alcaron. However, upon reaching the Dead City, they discover a disturbing truth, and more is revealed that may threaten Aragorn's very presence in Gondor.
> 
> This chapter contains a major spoiler, so I would not read it until you've caught up on chapters 8 through 16.

The small company of rangers flew east, with Celador at their head, for Aragorn deferred to his intimate knowledge of Ithilien. But the race invigorated Aragorn, his heart aloft and his long legs and feet light upon the earth, like he had long yearned to stretch them for a pursuit. With them was Tellagor, who had softened to Aragorn, and exhibited a playful banter, calling back to his original skepticism about the man called Thorongil. And six others, too, ran with them, for they kept their company small, so that they could cover much ground.

With two prisoners, they knew that what orcs captured Lord Alcaron and Denethor could not move swiftly, so the company hoped to overtake them before they drew too close to Mordor; though, the orcs had several hours’ lead on the rangers. It was clear the orcs followed the road, for it would allow them a swift passage as they carried their prizes to their Lord. So Celador led the company upon the same path, east and south, until the lands grew grey and quiet, and shadows crept among the trees, ever darker the further they traveled.

Time seemed not to move, for the sky was dark and grey, always shrouded by a veil of cloud, and the company thought some sinister work of the enemy was already against them, set upon the land itself to hinder them, for they became winded and their legs heavy.

“The land is ill,” Aragorn said, breathing heavily. “I feel heavy of heart, and limb, more than I would on such a chase in any other place.”

“Indeed, there is a power over this land. Seldom do we travel far east, for a sleepless malice lies here, and it delays us, I fear,” Celador said.

The company halted for a moment and drank from their water and attempted to catch their breath. The air was thick and heavy, like a great dense forest after a hard rain, but they were in no such place where rain would quench the thirst of man, beast, or tree. Any such weather was a further stain upon the earth, a sickening that deepend, and they could see the brush and trees around them were bare and broken, falling or cracked and leaning.

“Let’s continue! We cannot delay further!” Celador shouted through deep breaths.

The company was weary, but they did not rest, and each man mustered what strength he had to continue the chase, and they ran with soft footfalls. As they came at last to the vale, the Morgulduin was on their right to the south, and it seemed all life faded from the earth, save fields of white flowers. The air was ill and the rangers of Gondor dared not go near the fields along the road. Then, in a bend of the road, the dead city loomed. Bathed in an unnatural glow, it was shrouded in a mist, and the sharp peaks of its walls and the great tower emerged above the pale mist, surrounded by the shadowy mountains behind. All were quiet, and fear gripped the men. Tellagor broke their silence as he spotted an orc camp, though it was empty, and a thin wisp of smoke drifted faintly above a dead fire.

“Hold!” Aragorn shouted as the rangers neared. “Celador, let me alone with the camp for a moment, and I will see what trail signs I may find there.”

Celador nodded, “I trust to your skill, for we have little knowledge of the land that lay ahead.”

Aragorn entered the camp on his own and held his hand above the smoldering wood and coals. They were warm, but steaming, for water had been tossed over them not long ago, and the ground was wet and muddy. Near the fire he found signs of a heavy bundle, which had been tossed upon the ground, and there it seemed to disturb the ground around it, and footprints, those of orcs and uruks, were around it. Here lay one of the prisoners. But, as he searched further, he dismayed, for no sign of the other prisoner could he find upon the ground.

At last he waved to the rangers and they came into the camp as well, and surrounded the fire where Aragorn stood. “Here lay one of the prisoners,” he said, pointing low to the ground. “However, I fear the worst, for I cannot find sign of another body or where it lay,” he said quietly. Then he thought a moment, rubbing his chin, “Perhaps, they further bound their prisoners here, and maybe Denethor or Lord Alcaron resisted, and was cast down, while the other remained standing.”

“I would certainly prefer this reading to the other,” Celador said grimly.

The sound of footsteps and rustling brush alerted them, and the rangers drew their weapons and Tellagor knocked an arrow. From the gathering dark came a small company of orcs, led by one who was clad in armor, with a red cloak, and the clasp upon his neck was an eye of flame, and he wielded a great ax in one hand. The other orcs surrounded him, and they seemed pleased with themselves, laughing cruelly. The orcs approached the camp, and the rangers closed their ranks, with the fire between them and the enemy.

“Men of Gondor,” the lead orc sneered. “Have you come to offer yourselves as further prizes for our master?”

“You come only to slow us,” Celador said. “There is no prize for your master here!”

The orc laughed and his bodyguards drew their weapons, but to the rangers’ surprise, from the surrounding bush came more orcs, and the company was swiftly surrounded. Aragorn and Celador stood together, and Tellagor let loose his arrow at an oncoming orc, as the others in their company clashed with enemies all around. But Aragorn saw that the lead orc did not engage, and his bodyguards stayed close to him.

As the skirmish around them grew, Aragorn’s desperation and a smoldering rage grew, knowing that the orcs simply delayed their pursuit, while Denethor and Lord Alcaron were carried closer to the tower. An orc flew at he and Celador, wildly, but Celador stepped forward and cut him down, and Aragorn seemed to wake from his thoughts. With Narsil in-hand he strode toward the lead orc and his bodyguards, leaving the rangers to handle the others. 

“You will not delay us further!” Aragorn called. “Step forward, or do the Captains of Mordor fear men so greatly that they would hide behind bodyguards?”

The orc bristled, and his bodyguards looked back at him to see whether they would fight, or if their leader would answer Aragorn’s challenge. The Morgul orcs’ deference and fear turned quickly, as their leader spoke, “Ha! Murzag fears no man. Who are you to challenge me? Kill him!”

The bodyguards shifted to sinister laughs and stepped toward Aragorn, though he could tell that their sneers and confidence was a mask for their fear. He could waste no further time, and Aragorn met the two of them quickly, parrying their blows until he stepped through them, cutting one and then the other, until they fell to their knees. Narsil became drenched in their black blood, and they fell and there was nothing between him and Murzag, who quaked at the sight of Aragorn’s ferocity. But, the orc captain still laughed, though his voice wavered.

“Hm, it seems you shall die by my hand, after all,” Murzag said, hefting the ax in both hands.

With a great cry, he strode forward and swung the ax, but Aragorn stepped back, and its blade buried into the earth. Murzag lifted it quickly again, and with another swing, the two blades flew by and Aragorn stepped back again. Aragorn held Narsil in one hand, and looking at the broken blade, knew he could not parry a blow from the great ax, nor could he strike a blow from such a distance as the ax could reach. 

As Murzag swung the ax again, Aragorn ducked and rolled, and with a quick swipe, cut at the orc’s legs, and Murzag staggered. The orc propped himself up on the ax for a moment, and Aragorn climbed to his feet and turned, running swiftly back toward the orc captain. But, Murzag could not be felled by such a blow, and he stood and with both arms, swung the ax over his head and down in a reckless fury but Aragorn stepped aside as the ax buried into the ground with a thud. In one powerful motion, Aragorn brought Narsil down upon the shaft of the ax and cut it in two. Murzag staggered backwards and dropped the ax handle.

But the orc captain came at Aragorn again, screaming with rage. Aragorn stood ready and when Murzag reached for him and came with his full weight to tackle him, Aragorn struck and Murzag stumbled and fell to his knees. No more threats or laughs could the orc muster, and Aragorn put an end to Murzag swiftly, and looked back to the camp and the rangers there with Celador. Two of their company had fallen, though all orcs lay dead around them. Celador bent over one of his slain brethren, his heart heavy and his face darkened. Tellagor stood beside him.

“Celador, we cannot delay further!” Aragorn said, urging him onward. But the weight of the vale and the power of Mordor was upon them, and Celador stood slowly, and nodded silently. “Come! The last leg is upon us! We must hurry and rescue Denethor and Alcaron, or we shall not leave this valley alive!” Aragorn attempted to alight some fire within the rangers, and few seemed to respond, but they carried on nonetheless.

As they ran forward along the Morgul road, the beaten path gave way to white stone, darkened by feet and years and the decay of Mordor. The city stood far on the other end, for the bridge spanned a wide stretch of the Morgulduin and a stinking marsh that surrounded the city. There, Aragorn and the company halted, for at last they had reached their quarry, though the small band of orcs remaining did not hurry to their master. They stood together upon the bridge, and a man, bound and a hood thrown over his head, sat among them. Aragorn dismayed, for he saw only one prisoner, and as the two companies faced one another, a hooded figure, like that of the Black Numenorean who led their ambush near the Cross-roads, stepped forward.

“Thorongil. I commend your spirit, for there are few in Gondor who would have flown so far into the Vale to rescue a companion, much less one who doubts you so,” the hooded man said in a voice that was fell and seemed to echo among the stones and hills around them as if some spell lay on his words.

“Who are you? What have you done with Denethor and Lord Alcaron! Give them over at once, or you shall fall where you now stand,” Aragorn said defiantly.

“Why, Denethor sits here, in front of you,” the robed figure motioned toward the man sitting on the stone, his head covered by a dark cloth, hands bound behind his back.

“That is but one prisoner,” Celador spoke. “Yet, two you stole from Ithilien!”

The robed figure laughed and it shook the spirits of the Men of Gondor, “Celador, Captain of Ithilien. You who brought this treachery into your home. Though, you would have fallen at Cair Andros were it not for him.”

Celador looked at Aragorn, whose face was red and his eyes glared at the robed figure, attempting to pierce the dark veil that seemed to shroud his identity. Celador could not make sense of the words, and he shook his head, “Speak not your poisoned counsels. I have no interest in your lies!”

“Lies? Ha! Who among us has deceived those he has called his friends?” The robed man continued to spin his web, and the words landed in the hearts of the men around Aragorn, and they looked to one another with confusion and despair.

“Enough! Where now is Lord Alcaron, if Denethor sits there? If he has been delivered to your master already, then I have no need to hear your words any longer,” Aragorn said.

The robed figure laughed again, and lifted his hood, and lo! as if some spell had lifted from him, his face was revealed, though it seemed to fade before them at the same time. For the shock landed upon Aragorn most of all, for he saw the face of Alcaron, which he had seen first in Pelargir, and now, the face became worn and older, and his blue eyes were sharp, and upon his face were many reddened scars.

“Alcaron?!” Aragorn gasped. The rangers stumbled back in fear as the veil was lifted from Alcaron’s disguise, and his long deception revealed, for they had flown in pursuit of him, a captive among the enemy, and this was now a great blow to their spirit.

“Ulchor is my right name, Thorongil. Now, what right name shall I call you?” Ulchor spoke in a gravelly voice, no longer the lordly tone that Aragorn knew from Alcaron.

Aragorn hesitated to speak, but his mind was now a storm, reaching back through his memory, and alarmed at every step he had taken since he arrived in Pelargir. A great despair fell on him, but he held it at bay with a rage like he had never felt. He gripped the hilt of Narsil at his side and the urge to strike was overwhelming, for he wished to make amends, but at once he knew regret and sorrow, for he also wished to silence Ulchor before he could reveal more, though how the enemy knew the truth, Aragorn could not tell.

“I can understand your hesitation. For I would wish to know more as well, though, also to silence my enemy before he could sow more dissent,” Ulchor said, pacing the bridge. “But, your coming put an end to my long plan, one of many years, almost uncountable. I knew there was little chance to capture you, such a mighty man in battle, as has been proven. So, now here you stand, before the gates of Minas Morgul, and I have delivered you, at least, and the son of Ecthelion.”

“You have delivered nothing yet!” Aragorn shouted.

Ulchor laughed quietly, “Oh, you still do not realize your situation.”

“Enough!” Aragorn drew Narsil and in response, Ulchor stood ready, and yet another truth was revealed, for he was no inexperienced lord, but a cunning warrior, and he held a long knife in his hand.

The orcs around Denethor dared not move as Aragorn and Ulchor clashed upon the bridge. A great storm arose around them, and a wind howled, its chill holding Celador and his rangers in their place. What courage they had was dashed, and even Celador stood now stricken dumb, and his limbs were heavy, and his feet like immovable stones, for his heart ran cold, and he knew not which course to take.  
Aragorn and Ulchor danced around one another, and Aragorn realized that he stood against a worthy foe, and he fought against Ulchor, but also himself, for he could not let rage blind him. But Ulchor’s words he could not drive from his mind, and they preyed upon his heart. For the words were true: Aragorn had deceived those close to him, those who looked to him for guidance, strength, and honor.

With many blows, Aragorn drove Ulchor back, and the servant of Mordor fell against the stone wall that lined the bridge, though at the last moment, Ulchor lifted his blade to hold back the last blow from Narsil. The man’s gaze was hateful and yet he sneered, enjoying the chaos and destruction he had sowed. Aragorn reached with his left hand, but Ulchor drew a blade concealed, a shorter knife that he thrust forward. Aragorn panicked and his left hand sought to catch Ulchor’s arm, but it was late, and the blade pierced Aragorn’s leg, though at last he caught Ulchor’s wrist, and held it back so that the wound was not deep.

“Like all good servants of Gondor, you shall die in the shadow,” Ulchor said. “And your friends will know at the end that you drove them to ruin.”

Aragorn shook his head, and his eyes watered, and he grit his teeth and with all the strength he could master, he at last overpowered Ulchor and twisted his wrist so that the knife fell to the stone and Ulchor winced in pain. He drove a knee into Ulchor’s body and with himself now free from Ulchor’s parry, Aragorn swiped Narsil down, cutting across his body, and with his shoulder, knocked Ulchor from the bridge. With a scream, Ulchor tumbled over the wall and fell through a thick cloud of mist that concealed the land below, but Aragorn heard his body hit the ground in a thud, and the mist enclosed again, and he heard no more.

As Ulchor fell, the orcs guarding Denethor fled down the bridge, toward the city, and the rangers did not bother to hinder them. Whatever spell or fear held Celador in place lifted, and he ran to Denethor and cut his bonds, and lifted the hood from his head. The son of Ecthelion blinked and cowered at the sudden lifting of his hood, and he looked around in alarm, but suddenly comforted by the sight of his kin. Denethor carried a dark wound on his head, dried blood in his hair and upon the side of his face. His eyes were cloudy and he spoke little, and what words he could muster were not altogether clear.

“You are safe now, my lord,” Celador said to him, as he and another ranger lifted Denethor to his feet and held him up.

“I fear… You may have to carry me,” he stammered, putting his hand to his forehead as it throbbed with a dull pain.

“We shall get you back at once,” Celador said.

Aragorn sheathed Narsil and sat with his back to the wall of the bridge, and Tellagor came to him and they bandaged the wound as best they could for the time being. The ranger helped Aragorn to his feet, though there was no celebration in Tellagor’s eyes. Aragorn could not hold his gaze, and looked down shamefully, but they did not speak. At last, Aragorn walked up beside Celador and Denethor, and the son of the Steward saw Thorongil before him.

“Thank you, Thorongil…” he muttered. “I misjudged…”

“Come, Denethor, we must away quickly,” Aragorn began to say, but he stopped suddenly.

Down the bridge, the men had not noticed the coming of a rider. Slowly he advanced, and all about him darkness deepened, and the mist rose from the land below, and began to engulf the bridge at his coming. At last the company heard the slow clopping of hoofs upon the stone, and they looked up to see the wall of mist and at its head, the dark rider. A powerful cold gripped the men and fear pierced their bones and captured their will.

Aragorn alone contained the will to withstand the terror, and he drew Narsil once more, and it seemed to him, for a moment, the rider halted. But he continued and none of the other rangers could bear the sight of the rider as his shadow grew. Within each man, unspoken fears and doubts echoed in their minds, and they heard a piercing cry in their mind like the cold memory of a past nightmare. They stumbled back, and Celador could barely hold Denethor up, and they both staggered back from the rider, stumbling and nearly falling to the ground.

“Go back!” Aragorn at last shouted, holding Narsil in both hands up at his shoulder. “Your agents are laid low, and lest you wish to lie among them, go back!”

The rider approached still, and a shrill cry suddenly came from him, and he raised one hand robed in black, and the rangers behind Aragorn cried aloud and began to flee. Celador and Tellagor held Denethor together, and they both began to depart. The cry shook Aragorn, and he winced and bent his head downward, though the cry could not drive him away. The rider approached, and Aragorn stood alone upon the bridge.

To himself, quietly, he spoke, “Die in the shadow.” Repeating the words of the treacherous Ulchor, he despaired, and his arms felt heavy, and Narsil faltered in his hands.

Suddenly, behind him, Aragorn heard a deep voice speak words of enchantment in an elvish tongue, and a great wind erupted. A great flash of light engulfed him, and he shielded his eyes, but saw then the shadow give way, and the wind and light cleanse the bridge of the thick mist before him. The Morgul rider’s steed reared and panicked, and the rider was thrown to the ground. In an instant, the wind and light vanished, and the darkness of the vale returned. But, the rider, now dehorsed and crawling upon the ground, his hold over the others was now broken.

Aragorn turned to see an old man in grey, and a faded blue hat approaching him, staff in-hand. He could not smile, but relief washed over Aragorn, and he almost fell to the ground as exhaustion took him. The old man came up to him at once, bypassing the rangers who looked up at the man in stunned silence, for their terror had gone. The old man knelt over Aragorn and held him gently, whispering words of comfort under his breath, and suddenly Aragorn felt warmth in his blood and strength in his body once more. His eyes searching, he looked into the old, kindly face looking down at him.

“Gandalf?” Aragorn stammered.

“It is I, my young friend! Let us speak later, for we must flee this place at once,” Gandalf said.

He helped Aragorn to his feet, and they walked back to Celador and the others. They silently and instinctively deferred to Gandalf, sensing that here was a figure of great power, one that they knew little of, but could tell that he was no enemy. “Come, Men of Gondor, we must go, quickly! Here, Denethor, have a draught of this,” he said, as he knelt beside Denethor and lifted a small flask to his lips, and Denethor drank a mouthful of an invigorating liquid.

Denethor seemed to recover his wits in a moment, and he stood without aid and could see clearly. Gandalf looked back, and turned to them, calling them to flee. The company ran with renewed vigor, for the presence of Gandalf was like a wind at their backs. They followed the road as it snaked back west, and as they ran, Gandalf looked back as he alone felt some presence pursuing them. But none overtook them, as they fled and even Denethor could match the rangers’ pace, strengthened by Gandalf’s draught.

As they began to leave the vale behind, Gandalf beckoned them to halt, and they came to a great grove of trees off the road. Gandalf whistled pleasantly, and to their amazement, several horses trotted out of the trees to greet them. There were enough for the remaining company, if two carried two men, each. They all mounted and Denethor sat behind Celador, for though he could make the flight from the bridge, the draught’s magic had waned, and he was again weak and in need of aid.

They rode swiftly and made for the Cross-roads. There, they were met by soldiers from Aragorn and Glamren’s host, who were set as watchmen. When the company rode in from the east, the watchmen hailed them, and called Gandalf’s name, for he had met them on his flight eastward, and called them to watch for his return. They rode more slowly, now, and in the company of their brethren, the rangers slowly calmed as they moved toward their homeland.

Into camp they rode, and all the men in the host who saw them cheered and called their names, for they were overjoyed at the return of Thorongil, Celador, and Denethor, their Lord. And they cried aloud, “Mithrandir!” for Gandalf was a beacon of hope for them, after a time of waiting and despair after the rangers set out to rescue Denethor. But, there were also hushed whispers, as many noticed that Alcaron was not among them, and they knew not the truth of what happened, and they wondered aloud whether the lord had fallen, or if the company had failed to rescue him.

***

Aragorn, Gandalf, and Glamren sat together in the large tent within their camp. Glamren had wished to know all about the rescue, yet Gandalf was hesitant to reveal much that Aragorn wished to say. So Aragorn spoke softly, and carefully, for he was weary, and more than the physical toll, the emotions which ran through his mind made him uneasy. As he relayed the confrontation with Ulchor, and told Glamren of the deception, Gandalf cleared his throat and took a pause from his long pipe.

“Yes, as Thorongil said, it appears Alcaron was no lord at all, but a servant of the Enemy, who somehow fooled all in Gondor, even Ecthelion,” he said.

Aragorn looked at him and Gandalf’s eyes darted to his quickly, then back up again as if he was in thought. Aragorn continued, “He said his trial was long, almost an uncountable number of years. Was there ever a true Lord Alcaron?”

Glamren, who was overwhelmed with the news, shrugged his shoulders, “I would not know, for such things are above my station. Afterall, if he was to have strove for many years toward the destruction of Gondor, then perhaps he has done so since I was a child, or more.”

“He seemed quite aged, though, not diminished in strength,” Aragorn said.

“Yes, yes,” Gandalf muttered. “There are many men in the service of our Enemy, and their origins are many. Though, this Ulchor is unlikely a Haradrim, but instead, must be an Easterling of some kind.”

At that, a guard stepped through the flap, begging the pardon of his captains for the disturbance, but he announced that Celador was outside, and Aragorn bid the guard to let him pass. Celador entered and it was apparent that he was quite weary, for he had seen to Denethor’s care since they arrived in the camp.

“Denethor will be alright. He suffered a blow to the head, likely upon his capture, when he was betrayed by Alcaron,” Celador sighed.

“Good. He will should be well enough to travel to Minas Tirith on the morrow,” Gandalf said. “Now, I believe we must all rest and—”

“Forgive me, Mithrandir,” Celador interrupted. “I wish to know more of this Ulchor, and the words he spoke. For he seemed to know of Thorongil, and it has weighed on my mind what part I may have played since I met Thorongil in Ithilien, who carried Ulchor’s message.”

Gandalf sighed and shook his head, for though he was kind and gentle, he often became short tempered around those who pried when they should have patience. “What do you wish to know, Celador?”

“Ulchor spoke ill of Thorongil, and of Gondor, and it was clear he had been at work for long in our land, but for what purpose? I met Thorongil in Ithilien and he carried a message from Alcaron, then, that warned of an attack upon Cair Andros,” Celador spoke, trying to walk through the past events in his memory.

“For what purpose we may never know,” Gandalf admitted. “Though it seems Ulchor was positioned well for an agent of the Enemy, with access to high lords and even the Steward, himself.”

“Yet, no true destruction came to Gondor because of his treachery,” Celador said.

“Aye, it seems we have thwarted his plan before it could ripen,” Gandalf said. “May it be that Thorongil’s coming ended Ulchor’s machinations; and perhaps, would you have not delayed him in Ithilien as you did, things might have occurred so that his plans did not go as far as they did.” Gandalf hoped the words would chastise Celador, and end his line of questioning, but the ranger persisted.

“Forgive me,” Celador said, bowing his head. “But, it was my duty, and Thorongil was a stranger to me then,” he looked at Aragorn, who felt his burning gaze. It was not one of anger, but merely a pleading suspicion, and as Aragorn sat next to Glamren, he could bear it no longer, and stood.

“Celador,” he began. But, Gandalf clutched his arm in warning, and Aragorn looked down at the wise old man, and sighed, and gently touched his hand and Gandalf released him. “There is that which you do not know, still; and though you are no stranger to me now, I fear that I am still a stranger to you, and purposefully so.”

“What? Speak plainly,” Celador said, at once saddened and angered.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Dunedain am I, and heir of Isildur.”

Celador was silent, and his face was pale, and Glamren also looked up at Aragorn in shock. Gandalf sat quietly, looking between the men, reading their hearts, and waiting to see where they would go. But, Celador still said nothing.

“I was sent to Gondor by Elrond Half-elven, lord of Rivendell. For that is the truth, as I spoke it to you before. But, the reason I have kept to myself, for he wished that I learn much of Gondor, and of the hearts of men from whom I have been long estranged.”

“Heir of Isildur?” Celador muttered. “No lore master am I, but even I know the name. For it was he who was once King, though the line of Anarion carried on in Gondor. What is the meaning of your coming to Gondor? To claim the throne that was once your kin’s?”

“No!” Aragorn cried. “No such thing do I wish, and it was not the intent of Elrond, nor myself to do such while I served the Steward. But, such knowledge among the high-born lords of Gondor would make them suspicious, or set them against me.”

“I could blame them not,” Celador said defiantly. “You have kept yourself from me, Tiror, from Glamren, and yet you speak of suspicion? Such doubt should be warranted!”

“Indeed,” Aragorn pleaded. “I beg your forgiveness, and though I may not earn your trust again, let Gandalf bear witness to my purpose, and the true intentions of my heart.”

Gandalf put away his pipe after knocking it on the arm of his chair, and stood, clearing his throat and looking quite agitated. “What Aragorn speaks is true, Celador. Though you may rightly not trust his word, now, and for that matter may have no reason to trust mine! But, what we now discuss here is a minor squabble that needs not be set right at this moment. For now, Celador, you must make do with what Aragorn has told you. But, know this, that knowledge of an heir of Isildur present in Gondor would do greater harm to the realm you so dearly love. Carry this grudge, if you must, but do not carry it openly, lest you bring further doubt and ruin to Gondor.”

Celador looked at the old man and knew he could not challenge him. He was pacified by the presence and power of Gandalf, though there still burned in him anger and distrust of all those around him. Celador at last bowed his head, “What is to be our plan?”

Gandalf clasped his hands behind his back, “I see no reason to stay out here any further, for it seems clear that the counsel to do so was Ulchor’s, and no doubt, part of his designs. We will return to Minas Tirith in the morning, for Denethor could do better in the Houses of Healing.”

“Then I will defer to your wisdom, Mithrandir,” Celador said, and he bowed his head once more, looked at Aragorn and Glamren, and departed the tent.

At once the tent became less tense, and it was clear that Celador’s anger could not be so easily brushed aside, though he would not openly challenge the strange power of Gandalf. Aragorn sat down once more, and put his hand to his head. Glamren then stood and turned to him, “If there is no further need of me, my Lord, I shall be going,” he said coldly, a practiced formality.

The tone further dismayed Aragorn, and he wordlessly nodded, and Glamren bowed and went, and only Aragorn and Gandalf remained. For a while Gandalf paced, and then at last sat beside Aragorn and put a hand to his shoulder. “Do not put so much burden upon yourself, Aragorn. These men are honorable, and proud, and this necessary deception has wounded them. But there is much that they owe to you, and I think that may yet sway their hearts.”

“I am filled with regret, though I know Elrond’s wisdom is right in this matter. As the days wore on, I became even more doubtful of my choice, and wished no longer to hide the truth from these men, whom I have called friends,” Aragorn said.

“There was no malice in your actions,” Gandalf said. “There is greater danger in the truth were it to be revealed now. There is a long history of strife in Gondor, around claimants to the throne, whether rightful or not. Many of the high lords are well-learned in Gondor’s past, and thus your coming as your true self would be ruinous if it plunged this land into internal divisions. Ecthelion is a bulwark of the West, as it stands, now. And though the Enemy is strengthened with time, we can ill afford cracks within Gondor’s walls.”

“You speak wisely, my friend. Though this is not a burden I wish to bear, nor do I wish to lay it upon others, and I fear I have done so now,” Aragorn said.

Gandalf waved his hand, “It is a burden you are destined to bear, and here you learn that many tests are before you, and men must weigh words and deeds. Your companions have much to decide, and I dare say that there is more to be said for Thorongil than this deception.”

“If not, then Ulchor may yet succeed,” Aragorn said.

“We shall decide such things when the time comes, not in the depth of night when doubt shrouds all thoughts,” Gandalf said. Aragorn nodded, and Gandalf rose slowly, and stretched. “Well, my friend. Get some rest, for I think we shall have more to do tomorrow, and much to discuss. I will leave you now.”

“Thank you, Gandalf,” Aragorn said, and the old man smiled and picked up his hat and staff, he walked through the tent flap. At last, alone, Aragorn covered his face with his hands and bent over in his chair. His hands and heart trembled, and he wept.

*** 

When Aragorn emerged from his tent at the coming of the sun, the camp was already humming with activity as men moved to and fro, breaking down their tents, dousing fires, and saddling horses. Aragorn saw down the busy line of tents, a column of rangers, with Celador at their head. Their numbers were fewer than when they arrived, but the company remained stout. As they walked by Aragorn’s central tent, Celador came up to him with his hands on his hips, he sighed and looked at the ground between them.

His eyes met Aragorn’s at last and he spoke, “Farewell, Thorongil. My company and I must return to our duties, as you and your host return to Minas Tirith.”

“Thank you for coming to our aid,” Aragorn said, his voice softly wavering.

“Wounds heal with time, Aragorn,” Celador said quietly, and Aragorn’s face was mixed with sorrow and fear, “And mine have not yet fully healed. But, I do not forget the actions of Thorongil upon the beach of Cair Andros, nor upon its walls. And much have you done since. No word of the truth will I speak openly, though I do not promise to hold this truth from Tiror, whom I dearly love, and in whom I confide. Should we meet again, then we shall do so as friends, truthfully.”

Aragorn put his hand to his heart and bowed his head low, and looking up his eyes were wet and clear, “You honor me, Celador. I was sent to learn the hearts of men, and no greater beacon have I seen than yours.”

“News travels to us in Ithilien, and I shall continue to hear of the deeds of Thorongil in Gondor. I pray that you serve well,” Celador said.

“May the Valar preserve you,” Aragorn said.

“Farewell, Thorongil,” Celador reached out his hand and Aragorn took it in his and smiled, and a faint smile came upon Celador’s face, and he departed.

Aragorn watched the ranger company leave, reaching the borders of the camp they turned north and faded into the trees. He stood alone in the morning sun, and looked at the bright sky to the west, taking in a deep breath to steady his heart. He turned and saw Gandalf sitting quietly upon a fallen tree, and he smiled and nodded to Aragorn, who smiled back, and went into his tent to gather his things.

It was only a few hours for the camp to break down and for the column to march west toward Osgiliath. Aragorn, Gandalf, Denethor, and Glamren rode together at the head, and they were greeted with great cheers in Osgiliath upon their return. Denethor was still weak, and his head throbbed, but Gandalf gave him a draught before they reached Osgiliath, so that he may look stronger as they rode through the city. At the Causeway forts, the company split off, with Glamren leading them and he was still shaken, cold and formal with Aragorn, and he led the company to bivouac on the Pelennor, within the walls.

Late in the afternoon, Aragorn, Gandalf, and Denethor came at last to the Gate of Gondor. It was open to them, and men and women cheered the return of their lord, and they tossed flowers at the feet of their horses as they rode up the stone streets from one level to the next. At the citadel, Denethor refused aid, and insisted upon having counsel with his father rather than go to the Houses of Healing. So, the three entered a private chamber with Ecthelion, and the Steward heard all.

“Grave news is this,” Ecthelion said, after Aragorn and the others finished the tale. “I can search my memory for Alcaron, and though I have known him, and he has been in my court for some time, there is a cloud over anything further.”

“Indeed, it seems there was some sorcery of the Enemy at work here,” Gandalf spoke. “I do not believe Ulchor to be a sorcerer himself, but I seem to understand that it was some magic upon him, and surrounding him, that concealed his nature. Perhaps there was more to his words and counsel than mere deception. But, with him now gone, we shall not know further truth of him.”

“Father, this plot troubles me greatly, for have I not spoken of those who come from without to sow doubt and destruction from within?” Denethor said angrily, feeling he had been vindicated by Ulchor’s betrayal.

“Ulchor may have come to Gondor from without, yes, but he concealed himself so well within its court, that men of learned history such as yourself could not detect or recall his coming, and saw nothing of suspicion about Alcaron or his past,” Gandalf replied. “Your suspicions continue to be vigilant, but also misguided, Denethor. For you look for enemies where there are none, yet Ulchor’s treachery does not warrant condemnation of all who seek to aid Gondor.”

“Perhaps,” said Denethor. “But, what lesson are we to learn from Ulchor, if not to more closely look at our friends and allies, even if they appear above reproach?”

“The lesson you should have learned, is that the Enemy is only growing stronger, and even the very wise can fall prey to His treachery,” Gandalf said.

“Indeed, it seems so,” Denethor said, sending a barb across the table to Gandalf, where it landed and Gandalf narrowed his eyes and they seemed suddenly aflame.

Ecthelion sighed, “Enough. Ulchor is defeated, but we must make sure that his works are no more. Denethor, my son, you must first regain your strength and go to the healers, for you are no good to me if a bludgeon has clouded your mind. The plot that you and Thorongil saw within Minas Tirith is now clear, for it was a part of Ulchor’s treachery, and though we have driven out those who served him, and he is felled, we must be sure that no other pieces remain untouched.”

“Yes, father,” Denethor said begrudgingly.

“Mithrandir, I wish that you had been here sooner, but in your stead a strong ally have we in Thorongil, and I see that you two are known companions even before he came hither,” said Ecthelion.

“Yes, my lord,” Aragorn spoke. “But, I have known Gandalf for little more than a year, for we met not long before my coming here.”

“Saruman the Wise has aided us, and his counsel has been a strength. He withdrew to Orthanc the year that I arose as Steward. I would have you carry a message to him, Thorongil, and inform him of Ulchor’s deceits. Perhaps in his wisdom, we may find the truth of the magic from which Ulchor drew to deceive us, for that greatly troubles me as a potential weakness in the future.”

Gandalf looked uneasy, and he looked at Aragorn with a subtle glance, “My lord, Saruman’s knowledge is deep, indeed. Allow me to accompany Thorongil to Orthanc, for I, too, would seek Saruman’s counsel on many things that have been on my mind.”

“I do not command you, Mithrandir,” Ecthelion readily admitted. “If you wish to travel with Thorongil, then you shall. But, I do not send Thorongil from my service. You must still stand with Gondor, and all her allies, Captain,” he said to Aragorn.

“Aye, my lord. I shall,” Aragorn answered.

“Then let us break, and go our ways. Denethor and I shall probe our records here, for there is much lore in Minas Tirith that even I do not know. Perhaps, in our efforts, we may yet find links to Ulchor, and his name Alcaron, in the past.”

“A wise course,” Gandalf said. And Denethor looked at him suspiciously, but the wizard dismissed his gaze, for even Denethor could not yet match the subtlety and wit of Gandalf; however, the son of the Steward was not blind to things that moved between words, and his mind was sharpening, and there began to grow a rift.

As Gandalf and Aragorn rode back through the Gate of Gondor, and Aragorn looked up at the great walls, much was on his mind. Gandalf could read him, and he knew that Aragorn still thought of his actions in Gondor, and the great danger that he had encountered in just a short time here. “Your time here is not ending, Aragorn. Thorongil has much business, still, in Gondor, and perhaps even elsewhere.”

“I fear that this plot has started me on the wrong path, here,” Aragorn said.

“Quite the contrary, actually. I see this may have earned suspicion from some, particularly Denethor, who seems to be growing in not only suspicion, but wisdom. But, you have gained such allies, and reputation, that great deeds you may yet accomplish here, still.”

“I hope you are right, my friend,” Aragorn said, and he could not help but smile at Gandalf.

They rode together northwards, through the Rammas, and upon the road that Aragorn had previously taken toward the Druadan, though that was not their path now. For they rode north swiftly, and safely, as the road took them beyond the realm of Gondor, and at last, into Rohan.


	18. The Wizard's Vale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Gandalf ride through Rohan on their way to Isengard. At the Fords of Isen, they encounter an emissary of King Thengel under attack from men of Dunland.

Aragorn and Gandalf had ridden for many days west along the road for there was no great urgency in their errand. It brought peace and comfort to Aragorn as they talked, and silently sat around a small fire beneath trees waving in the cool breezes of summer evenings. They smoked their pipes in contented silence as their horses grazed and mingled nearby. The darkness of the Morgul Vale and Thorongil’s guilt washed away, slowly, though Aragorn ever thought of Celador, Glamren, and the Men of Gondor. He felt more at home beneath the trees and sitting upon the grass than within the stone walls of Gondor. Aragorn wondered if it would ever feel like home, if such a day came.

They rode on through the vast grasslands of Rohan, of rolling hills and the wind whipping tall grasses like green waves of some inland sea. They watched great herds of horses run over the hills, manes and long-flowing tails white and brown in the wind like great banners of kings. Their backs were bright in the sun from the sweat of running free of the saddle. Gandalf knew the land well, and they left the road and rode among the grasses, passing small villages of thatched roofs and crossing the Snowbourne they came into the Westemnet.

“Such splendour, here, even with the land so free of trees,” Aragorn said.

“Indeed,” Gandalf replied as they rode gently through the plain with the road far to their left across the plain and the Misty Mountains rising in a haze ahead and to their right. “Edoras now lies yonder, due south of us,” Gandalf said. “There sits Thengel, son of Fengel, in the Golden Hall.”

“Why did we forsake the road and not go by that route?” Aragorn asked.

“Our errand does not yet lie that way,” Gandalf explained. “I did not steer us away from Edoras for any ill purpose. Quite the contrary, Thengel is a fair man, and much fairer than his father, for he is not quick to anger, nor does he wield his power for the sake of accumulating gold. Thengel is a reluctant ruler, I should say, for he did not lightly return to Rohan upon his father’s passing.”

“Where abroad did he live if not in the house of his father?” Aragorn asked.

“In Gondor, under the service of Turgon, father of Ecthelion! Turgon was a noble Steward, and Thengel served him well, for it was under Turgon that the Mountain of Fire erupted once again, and the Enemy declared himself. Thengel is of two lands, for he also loves Gondor, and his wife, Morwen Steelsheen, hails from Lossarnach.”

“Surely the bond between Rohan and Gondor is strengthened by his rule,” Aragorn said.

“Quite strong, yes,” Gandalf replied. “So, it is not out of fear that we ride now from Edoras. You shall be a strong ally for him, as you now are for Ecthelion.”

“So strong an ally that I would be sent away from him,” Aragorn said mournfully

“You were not sent away due to the Steward’s doubt of your courage or honor!” Gandalf replied. “Though I am sure Denethor planted some doubt in his father’s mind, our journey was largely at my behest, recall. I wish that you should learn more, and I hope, for you to one day counsel Ecthelion wisely.”

“Learn more of what?” Aragorn asked, but Gandalf said no more. Though they had become fast friends, Aragorn still sense between them a gap, one that could not easily be leapt over, for Gandalf’s mind was an immense well of concern and knowledge, deep in its wisdom. Aragorn resigned to let the wizard alone, for now, and he knew that the old man’s plan and meaning would become clearer to him soon.

Soft sheets of rain fell over the Gap of Rohan and Aragorn and Gandalf rode quietly, Aragorn’s head beneath a hood and his cloak pulled across his chest. They rode westward and the gently rolling land at last dipped into a wide, flat expanse with the Isen ahead, turning its way toward the sea. The river was broad and shallow, for the Fords of Isen were the only safe place to cross and they must ford the river before turning north again toward Isengard.

But quickly, over the rain, Aragorn and Gandalf heard men shouting on the wind, and the clashing of weapons. They quickened their pace and neared the Fords, seeing men upon the banks. The river flowed over smooth stones and split in two, surrounding an islet where men of Rohan stood, and Aragorn saw that some were mounted still, circling their horses around those on foot. On either side, scores of wild men shouted at the Rohirrim and clashed their weapons upon leather shields.

“Dunlendings!” Gandalf said. “Old hatreds run deep.”

“We shall ride them down and save the men upon the islet!” Aragorn said.

He spurred his horse forward and Gandalf followed. As they neared, it was clearer that several Rohirrim had fallen already, for there were bodies in the shallow river, pierced with spears or cut down by sword and axe. Blood mingled with the waters, and the knights upon the islet tried desperately to fend off attacks as the Dunlendings charged across the river, a handful at a time to try and break through.

But the Rohirrim upon their steeds held them back, though the Dunlendings closed in tighter and tighter as the thought of a full charge, despite whatever losses they may suffer themselves. There were suddenly other shouts that echoed over those of the Dunlendings, and the men upon the eastern bank turned to see Aragorn and Gandalf riding hard toward them. Aragorn knew there was little he could do upon his horse, but drive the Dunlendings away, or split their numbers, since he could hardly wield the broken Narsil on horseback.

Aragorn led the way and the Dunlendings parted like the river itself at his coming. At least a dozen of them upon the eastern bank ran from his charge, and Gandalf followed close behind, and he wielded Glamdring, cutting through rain and blood as he reached out and smote a couple Dunlendings on his way. The water splashed around his steed as Aragorn rode into the river and wheeled around riding toward those on the western bank, and he rode so swiftly, there was hardly any counterattack from the Dunlendings. They fled from him and Gandalf, who followed behind to cut down the enemy as they fled Aragorn’s initial charge.

The Rohirrim upon the islet were emboldened and a captain among them cried out, and though they did not charge, they repelled the Dunlendings with greater courage, for before the arrival of Aragorn and Gandalf, their resolve waned and their defense was desperate. Aragorn and Gandalf at last turned and came to the islet and dismounted, greeting the Rohirrim as the Dunlendings regrouped and rallied. They had lost merely a handful, and only two came to the aid of the Rohirrim, though they did not comprehend the strength of the two who had come.

“Hail, strangers! We are heartened by your aid,” said Threol, who appeared to be a captain among the Rohirrim.

“You may not know me, but I know Rohan. For it is I, Gandalf, who your people call Greyhame!” Gandalf said. “And this is my companion, Thorongil, a Captain from Gondor. We rode for Isengard, until we saw your plight.”

“Many thanks, Greyhame! I have heard of you,” Threol said. “I am Threol, and my company was escorting the King’s emissary.”

At that a dark hair man came up, still upon his horse, his hair matted to his head and face by the rain. He was dressed finer than the others, and was clearly no soldier. He wore a heavy, dark cloak around his shoulders. “Greetings, friends of Rohan,” he said. “I am Galmod, emissary of King Thengel.”

“Well met, Galmod,” said Aragorn. “Let us add to your defense, and we may drive away the enemy so that you may carry on with your business.”

“Your arrival has scattered them on both banks for but a moment,” Threol said, looking to the east.

The Dunlendings there were regrouped and upon the west, a handful remained, and among them was their chieftain. He stood ahead of the others, ankle-deep in the waters of the Isen. A white pelt lay across his shoulders, and a green hood over his head. His dark beard featured two braids and he carried a curved club, with spikes of bone upon the end, though he also carried a sword on his back. Those around him carried shields adorned with a boar sigil. As it was clear that no further aid was coming to the Rohirrim, the Dunland chieftain raised his hand and shouted in a coarse tongue and the men from both banks ran at the islet.

The islet provided the Rohirrim with some defense, for it was surer footing for them than the stony river. It sloped upward into a promontory that stood over the small drop in the river. Upon his steed, Galmod waited there, for no attack could come from that side. The knights on horseback circled and Aragorn and Gandalf stood on foot with a handful of others. They were still outnumbered two-to-one.

Aragorn stood ready on the western edge of the islet and the Dunland chieftain charged forward, his warriors passing him by with greater fury. Aragorn and two Rohirrim beside him clashed with the Dunland warriors, and Aragorn parried the blow from a Dunland sword and slayed the bandit who wielded it. Dunlending warriors, their faces covered by pale masks, wielded spears and thrust at the knights on horseback, but the Rohirrim held firm, and though their steeds reared, they came down with heavy hoofs and their riders swung their swords to drive the enemy back.

The chieftain came at them at last, and as he wielded his club in his right hand, one of the Rohirrim soldiers challenged him. The chieftain’s fury was overwhelming, and the old hatreds between his people and the men of Rohan fueled his rage. He struck the scout with his club and unsheathed the heavy sword from his back and brought it down upon the Rohirrim, smiting through his helm and armor.

Aragorn turned and rushed to the chieftain, who now had to drop one of his weapons and shift his sword to his true hand. Aragorn threw his weight into the warrior, but the Dunlending was strong and his legs planted firm. With his free arm, the chieftain grabbed Aragorn by the cloak and readied to bring his sword down, but it met Narsil and wavered, and Aragorn pushed the sword back and swiftly drove his blade between the armor of the chieftain, who fell to his knees. At that moment, a spear was thrown and it impaled the chieftain through the back, and Aragorn looked up in amazement.

Threol wheeled his horse around as he reached for a sword tied to his saddle, and he smiled at Aragorn and unsheathing the sword he waved it in the air and his steed trotted forward and cut off a rush of Dunland berserkers who came at them from the east. Without their chieftain, it appeared the Dunlandings had lost their spirit, and the mounted knights of Rohan proved a stout deterrence, for the Dunlendings could not do more than skirmish with the men on foot, and attempt to frighten the steeds of Rohan.

At last, the remaining Dunlendings fled, and Threol and two other knights rode after them, driving them over the eastern hillocks. Then the Rohirrim stopped upon the crests of the hills and watched as the Dunlendings cursed their old enemies and fled further into the foothills that stood below the Misty Mountains.

Aragorn tended to a fallen rider as Threol returned. The Rohirrim company had lost only four and two others lay injured with little hope to mend their wounds, had Aragorn and Gandalf not arrived. The Men of Rohan saw that Aragorn was skilled in healing, and tending to the wounds of those who still lived and an unspoken fondness for this Captain of Gondor was kindled in Threol and his company.

“Rohan now owes you a debt, Thorongil,” Threol said. “And Greyhame, I’ve heard comes unlooked for, but always with purpose, and good tidings!”

“Good tidings, you say?” interrupted Galmod. “I fear this Dunlending attack speaks ill tidings, for they are emboldened, and it seems there will be need to strengthen our defense in the West.”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf said to Galmod. “But that is to be discussed in the Golden Hall. I wish to get out of this rain, and we shall all continue to Isengard, that being our shared destination.”

“It would be an honor to ride with you, Greyhame!” said Threol.

The company laid to rest the few who had fallen, building simply cairns upon the islet, and departed for Isengard, riding north along the western bank. They rode through another night and came into the Wizard’s Vale, through which the Isen flowed from its spring in the mountains. The valley was fair and green and the company rode beneath trees, filled with singing birds, now lively after the rain.

As they emerged from beneath the trees, there was a wide grass lawn that led up to the stone walls surrounding Orthanc, a great black tower of glistening stone. Aragorn gazed upon it, recalling the walls of Minas Tirith and how they shone in the morning sun, made of the same dark stone from a time now far removed. The ring wall of stone was open only at a single gate, with great doors of iron, and men stood guard there, and upon the walls.

“Halt! Who rides there?” one of the guards upon the wall shouted as the riders emerged from the trees.

Before the Men could speak, Gandalf sat straight in his saddle and called aloud, “It is I, Gandalf! A company of Men is with me, all seeking Saruman’s counsel.”

“Ho! Welcome Gandalf!” the guard said, pleased, for he knew Gandalf as a friend.

The iron gates opened silently, and the company rode through a tunnel hewn in the wall and out again into a fair green valley, a mile across, within the ring. Orthanc towered above them, but the Men of Rohan seemed not to gaze upon it with wonder, if they had become accustomed to its presence. But Aragorn again stared up at it, shielding his eyes from the sun. The Misty Mountains towered there beyond, too, their peaks and faces covered with little snow now in the late summer.

The riders followed pathways to stables near the foot of the tower, and relief washed over them, now, free of any danger, and safe to speak amongst themselves as friends. They knew the stores of Isengard well, and looked forward to a fine meal and ale later in the evening.

“Aragorn, Gandalf whispered as he and Aragorn stood beside their horses, alone. “There was much I wished to tell you before we arrived here, but our meeting with the men of Rohan demanded that I set those concerns aside, for I did not wish to speak openly among them, though they are friends.”

“What about?” Aragorn asked, running his hand gently and comfortingly along the back of Gandalf’s steed, now free of its saddle.

“It is a tale too long to tell in full, here. But, it will do only to caution you in Saruman’s presence. His voice carries great power and men may be swayed to do its bidding, though the purpose may not be ill. Let us take care and do not speak so freely of things that have occurred in Gondor.”

“I shall try,” Aragorn said. And though Gandalf called Saruman a friend, still, Aragorn was unsure whether that was the full truth.

—

Saruman greeted them upon the steps, his flowing robes and long beard white, though the robes seemed to catch light within the folds and shimmer in many colors. He leaned on a staff, as Gandalf did, but Saruman’s was of dark, smooth stone, like the outer walls of Orthanc. He smiled at them and held out his hand in welcome.

“Gandalf, you have come with many friends,” he said warmly. “I expected Galmod of Rohan, but to see you and a companion of yours who I do not know is unexpected, but welcome.”

Gandalf bowed his head, “We come from Gondor, for there is news to be heard from that land. This is Thorongil, Captain in Ecthelion’s service.”

“Welcome, Thorongil, I look forward to hearing news of Gondor. Long has it been since I visited the White City. Many days and nights have I spent in his record halls and libraries, learning much of its lore and history.”

“It is an honor,” Aragorn said, bowing and putting his hand to his chest.

Saruman studied him, and Aragorn felt as if he were suddenly exposed and all was laid bare for those to see and know. His heart trembled under the gaze. The wizard smiled once more and looked beyond him to the men of Rohan who stood on the steps behind Gandalf and Aragorn.

“Come friends, you have endured much on the road. My wardens will care for your wounded, and surely you should like a meal and drink,” Saruman said, waving them all to follow him and he turned up the steps and entered the great iron doors that led into the main hall.

Inside the great hall, Saruman’s voice echoed. The walls were of the same black stone, and tapestries hung upon them. Saruman led them through and into other chambers, speaking as he walked, seemingly knowing all that had happened to them on the road and at the Fords.

“The men of Dunland are emboldened, I fear,” he said. “Power rising in the East once more, and it seems to spread, where old enemies recall their past feuds and seek to renew them.” Saruman’s voice carried and its rhythm was like a fair music and Aragorn felt himself lost in its melodies, as if he sat upon a fine, soft chair in Rivendell and a harp sang him to sleep.

“It would be wise if Thengel sought to repair such old divisions,” he continued. “Though, the clans themselves have many squabbles between them. A strong leader, for surely Thengel is, could bring them together.”

At last they reached a fair dining hall, with a long table of dark heavy wood in the center. The servants had placed food and wine enough for many men. The wizard bid Thorongil, Threol, Galmod, and their company to sit and eat, for Saruman said to them that he wished to speak with Gandalf alone. But Gandalf quickly protested.

“Forgive me, Saruman, but Thorongil and I have ridden together, and it was on his errand that we have come. Let us three speak together of things in Gondor, first.”

Saruman smiled, though he seemed it forced it upon his lips. He tapped his staff gently on the floor and his long eyebrows lowered as he looked at Gandalf disapprovingly behind a veil of kinship.

“So be it, let us speak in my parlor,” Saruman said at last.

He led them into his private ornate chamber, yet it was filled with books and scrolls. He sat in a tall chair and Gandalf and Aragorn sat, a small table between the three of them. Saruman leaned his staff against the table and sat back, intertwining his fingers.

“What is it you wish to speak of, Gandalf?” he asked.

“Thorongil has the tale, but I shall also relay some of it, for we have come to seek your knowledge on some matter of the East,” Gandalf replied.

“Ah, yes. I have traveled far thither, and seen many things, and men of strange places. What troubles you? Surely there has been no foray into Gondor from Easterlings?”

“None of great force,” Gandalf said dismissively, knowing Saruman sought to steer the conversation in his own way.

“So how is the defense of Ithilien? That land is the first line of defense, and Gondor holds it well, still?”

“Indeed,” Aragorn spoke. “I know several of the Captains there, my lord.”

“So from Ithilien do you come, Thorongil? What news can you tell me of its defenses?” Saruman asked Aragorn.

Aragorn again felt his mind adrift and he spoke at first without thought, “No, I do not call Ithilien home, but—” he caught himself suddenly and shifted in his chair. “Battles there have been, but not against Easterlings.”

“Yes, orcs and men of Harad have attacked Gondor of late,” Gandalf said looking at Aragorn. “But it is not these battles that we have come to speak of.”

“Greater danger than assaults upon Ithilien? Surely the Enemy could not be so powerful, yet?” Saruman continued, speaking to Aragorn and disregarding Gandalf. “Where have they pressed you?”

“At Cair Andros, and later Osgiliath,” Aragorn said. “I was at the defense of both. But the stranger tale is in Minas Tirith. It seems a dark plot was underway there, and sought to poison Ecthelion’s counsels.”

“A plot against the Steward, you say? Such internal strife has not been unheard of in Gondor. For ages ago there were many conflicts as men claimed rights to the vacant throne, and surely no such heir has attempted to make such a claim there. That line is long ended.”

Aragorn looked at Saruman strangely, and he felt as if his own voice wished to betray him, but Aragorn remembered Gandalf’s words and thought carefully. “No, I do not know of such a thing. It was one of Ecthelion’s lords that sought to betray him to the Enemy.”

“Ah, the Enemy promises power to many and ensnares them thusly,” Saruman said. “Surely there are men in Gondor weak enough to fall to his words and lies.”

“It was no man of Gondor,” Gandalf said. “Thorongil, and the Steward’s son, Denethor, discovered and rooted out the plot, though it was led by a strange figure, a man who called himself Ulchor.”

Saruman thought on this and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ulchor. What did you discover of this man?” he asked Aragorn.

“He was known as Alcaron in Gondor, and was a high lord in the Steward’s service. But, upon his death, for I myself dealt the blow, some magic seemed to leave him that revealed himself. I have never seen such before.”

“The Enemy weaves many lies, even those that could deceive your eyes. Perhaps there was some such spell cast upon this Ulchor,” Saruman said. “The Enemy may send many servants out into the world who conceal themselves from others and seek to find their way into the counsels of kings and great lords.”

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his seat and both Gandalf and Saruman looked to him suddenly, but discreetly. Gandalf glanced back at Saruman, seeing him studying Aragorn closely. Suddenly, Gandalf intervened.

“It is a bold stroke to attempt such a plot,” he said. “The Enemy is certainly strengthened and seeking to extend his reach, since we drove him from Dol Guldur.”

“His power remains contained,” Saruman said dismissively. “But, there is ever need for allies and strength in free lands to also contain his servants. Orcs have grown more aggressive in the mountains. Why, even one band has come down from the foothills into my own valley.”

Gandalf looked to Aragorn as if sending him a silent warning. “It indeed seems something has stirred them in the Misty Mountains. Could it not be that the Enemy has stirred his followers there, searching for that which may deliver him all the lands of Middle-earth?”

“As I have said before, Gandalf, my friend. The One is lost to him, forever. For though it be not destroyed, as it is likely washed away into Belegaer, he can never again regain it. That is why we must seek to contain his followers.”

“What of this orc band,” Aragorn said, finding himself suddenly focused solely upon the idea of following orc tracks in the wild.

Saruman looked pleased at Aragorn’s interest, “Ah, yes, I only know that they are led by a captain who calls himself Mugash. It would be a danger to the Westemnet if they grew in number and this orc captain allowed to raid into the mark.”

“Perhaps Threol and Galmod would be interested to hear of this,” Aragorn said.

“Yes, indeed! For it is the reason that I called them hither,” said Saruman. “And by your eagerness, it seems that you could join them in this endeavor, as surely you have done your share already to stem the tide further south.”

“I have done what I could,” Aragorn said, and he felt a twinge of doubt as it bubbled to the surface.

“There is more you could do, for Gondor and for Rohan. A Captain of Gondor in Thengel’s service would certainly please the king, and could only strengthen the bonds between your fair lands,” Saruman said.

“It would be my honor, of course,” Aragorn replied, “Though it was not Ecthelion’s intent that I should stay.”

“Of course not, but I shall write to him. I will further look into the possible spells that this Ulchor wielded to deceive the Steward, he would be interested to know of such things, and whether danger remains in his counsel. But, I am sure he would be pleased to have you aid Thengel, his ally, in this time of need.”

Aragorn could not say by what force he was driven to accept Saruman’s wisdom, but he felt calm and assured of the wizard’s course of action. He felt compelled to seek this orc captain and the thought reminded him of hunting orcs with his brethren, Elladan and Elrohir. He missed them, and there seemed to be some semblance of comfort in this task, for it was far more familiar to him than defending the walls and commanding companies of men that he had done in Gondor.

Gandalf knew that Saruman had woven a subtle tale, one that appealed to Aragorn’s heart. For though Saruman knew little of Aragorn himself, it was clear to him that the man, Thorongil, was eager to hear of the orc threat, and drawn to such a task. Gandalf resolved that there was little harm in allowing Aragorn to hunt this Mugash, though as he looked to him across the table, he knew that he must expand upon his worry and tell his tale more in full to his young friend.


End file.
